


What's Left of Me

by canadascockpit



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brothers America & Canada (Hetalia), Eventual Happy Ending, Father England (Hetalia), Fluff and Smut, Grief/Mourning, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2020-12-29 08:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21136592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadascockpit/pseuds/canadascockpit
Summary: Mother Nature takes her ruthless revenge upon the nations of the world. Matthew is the first to hit rock bottom. Feeling alone in a sea of troubles, he clutches onto Ivan for dear life, though he harbors a hatred for the Russian as violent and frightening as the changing world around him. This is the moment of truth. Time is running out and many nations have come to the end of their line. Matthew must choose to evolve with the times, find a cure for his sufferings, or let the world burn him and all that he cares about to ash.





	1. Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major character death and non-con will be very slight in this story. Violence, on the other hand, will for sure be depicted! This story has a happy ending, though, I promise. 
> 
> Please like and comment! I love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> ** Disclaimer: ** I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters.

The annual G8 meeting proceeded as usual. Everyone filed in gradually and took their respective seats at the elongated mahogany table beneath a high-arched ceiling. The sound of briefcases slamming on the wood surface echoed throughout the room. 

Today was Germany’s turn to take the floor. He presented meticulously organized charts and economic data to the intense boredom of everyone present. Despite the occasional uproarious interruptions from America, the bickering of England and France, and the furious scolding from Germany which resulted, the time ebbed by slow as molasses. 

Germany had everyone's attention for the moment, addressing more sensitive issues of global security and terrorism, which piqued some interest. In the midst of Germany’s end-of-times severity, England interrupted him to address the more pressing problem of mounting global disasters, to the displeasure or disregard of all. England had been one of the hardest hit, lately. 

Important as the crises may be, Canada was distracted. The usually shy nation stared at Russia unabashedly throughout the majority of the meeting. Canada couldn’t fathom what drew his gaze to Russia, all of the sudden, but understood his eyes liked to linger there. It was almost as if there was something different, inexplicable, bubbling beneath the surface of that frightening miasma of his. Besides, it never occurred to anyone to take notice of Canada, so he took his fill of the Russian unhurriedly, unmolested by prying eyes. 

Russia’s features were childish and supple, almost innocent, and his voice was even more so. Every time he spoke, his words resounded like the tinkle of bells and his laughter was musical, though sometimes edged with something sinister. Russia’s presence seemed to make people feel anxious and agitated. In juxtaposition to his childlike disposition, the Russian’s nose dominated his face, as massive and imposing as his figure. Curious, as well, were his violet eyes, which flashed like kodak-cameras: _ blink-click, blink-click. _ Taking everyone in, committing their expressions and acts to memory. They blazed like the sun and in the next moment darkened like the shadows of night. 

Canada inhaled sharply, watching Russia’s attentive expression, as Germany droned on. 

Out of the blue, the Russian’s eyes fixed on Canada pointedly. Canada felt his cheeks enflame in response, unused to the attention. Russia’s intense gaze leisurely sized him up, setting every inch of Canada ablaze. The dull, monotonous voices in the background faded to nothing, as Canada’s pulse pounded to a crescendo in his ears. Resisting the urge to look away, Canada tilted his chin defiantly and held Russia’s piercing gaze. He found the Russian’s thoughts unreadable, his expression blank. Canada’s valentine-candy pink tongue darted out to lick his lips, nervously. As if in response, the faintest twitch of a smile touched Russia’s lips. Then, just as suddenly as it started, Russia broke the stare. Canada breathed a sigh of relief, feeling pride that he had met the challenge head-on. Though, he refused to so much as cast a glance Russia’s way after that brief and terrifying interaction. 

+++++

The meeting was adjourned, and Canada immediately attempted to make a hasty retreat, scooping up Kumajirou in his arms. However, someone caught his arm in a vice-like grip before he could slip out. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” came the familiar voice. 

Canada let out a surprised yelp and whirled on his assailant. “Oh, Alfred! It’s only you,” Matthew sighed softly. He looked up into his brother’s azure eyes, bright like clear summer skies. “You mind relinquishing my arm, please?” 

Alfred’s laughter boomed throughout the room. Letting Matthew go, he ran the offending hand through his corn coloured locks, grinning almost sheepishly. “You’re so sensitive, bro. I only wanted to catch you before you did your magical Houdini-style escape!” he winked. “And just in the nick of time, I think.” 

“Well, you caught me. Once again, you prove that your reflexes are vastly superior to my own,” Matthew deadpanned. 

“Got that right!”

A moment passed. Alfred touched his fingers together, musing uncharacteristically. 

Matthew was beginning to feel slightly anxious at Alfred’s attention. Did his brother somehow notice Matthew spying on Russia, or witness their secretly shared moment? Alfred would be beside himself if he thought anyone -- especially the ‘commie’, as he so delicately put it -- was threatening his brother’s virginal purity, even with so much as a glance. Though, in retrospect, Matthew doubted Russia even recognized him. Or if he did, Matthew was sure Russia would not remember him even a second after. 

“Hey, listen. Would you wanna do me a favour, bro?” Alfred asked. 

“Of course,” Matthew agreed, politely, his nerves somewhat frayed. 

Alfred flashed him the thumbs-up and his award-winning smile. His cheeks were tinted red, curiously. 

“Geez, you’re the best. Wanna buy me lunch? I’m really starving, truly wasting away here, and I left my wallet at home. Actually, Tony might have pick-pocketed me again.” 

“Sometimes it’s good to make friends with earthly morals, eh?” 

“Well, sheesh. That’s why I got you!” 

Matthew laughed a little. He knew that there were countless of Alfred’s human subordinates who would fight for a chance to buy him lunch, and many other nations besides himself, but Matthew didn’t mind. He really did love Alfred, and though his company could be overstimulating to say in the least, Matthew liked to see his brother smile. And the American did so often. 

“Okay, buddy. Let’s go,” Matthew said. 

Instead of exiting the boardroom as he intended, Matthew walked into a brick wall. Or, really, it was a man who felt like a brick wall. Re-adjusting his glasses, the Canadian looked up to meet Russia’s steady mauve gaze once more, that enigmatic little smile gracing his lips. Kumajirou growled unhappily at being jostled thusly, and Matthew soothed him with a gentle pat, swallowing hard. 

Alfred’s shrill, angry voice exploded from behind Matthew: “Woah there, you loaf. Quit loafing around doorways, or you’ll get hurt. By me, specifically.” 

Diplomatic and regal was the American, as always. 

A heavy, hot hand clamped down on Matthew’s trembling shoulder. The Canadian’s breathing hitched. Russia had never touched him before. Russia had never even so much as noticed Matthew before, either. 

“I was merely waiting for your brother, comrade. We have matters to discuss in private.” 

Alfred blinked, clearly offended. He actually sputtered for a moment. 

“Okay, first of all, you’re clearly scaring him,” Alfred said, rushing to Matthew’s defense, or rather, to the defence of his own free lunch. “Second of all, I say no freakin’ way!” 

Alfred’s hand grabbed Matthew’s other shoulder in a far-too-tight grip. For a second, Matthew feared being caught in a tug-of-war between the two, his body being used as the rope. More pressingly, though, the Canadian couldn’t stop thinking about the sheer heat emanating from that enormous hand -- Russia is supposed to be cold, right? 

“Third of all, get your cold, clammy, commie hand off my bro. It’s disturbing to watch. It might actually make me sick,” Alfred said, starting to gag for effect. 

There was silence for an awkward few seconds. Then, Russia’s smile widened and split his cheeks, unexpectedly. He looked truly ominous. Matthew felt very afraid that the two were going to erupt into a brawl. 

“A-Alfred!” Matthew found his voice, though it was barely a squeak. “Enough with the dramatics!... Uh, he’s actually searing hot.” 

_ 'Why, God,' _ Matthew wondered to himself, _ 'did I say that?' _

Russia’s hand on Matthew’s shoulder tightened and its warmth seemed to double. The Canadian whimpered with mortification. “I-I mean…” he trailed off. 

Some irritated, some intrigued, nations were starting to traffic behind the blockage the trio created in the doorway. “Let’s get a bloody move on, please!” shouted England. 

_"Mais Angleterre, _ I am so enjoying these closed quarters with you,” came France’s lecherous voice, which was likely ensued by some aggressive groping, for England erupted into curses and the room resounded with audible blows. 

Russia laughed brightly, clearly amused by the embarrassing display the siblings exhibited. “Why don’t we ask little Canada what he wants, da?” 

What Matthew really wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die. However, thinking it impolite to refuse, he acquiesced. Apologizing earnestly to Alfred, Matthew found himself carted off by the Russian, as his brother called out repeatedly from behind him, “You nasty traitor!” And, as his voice faded, “If he kills you, I won’t come looking for your body!” 

Well, that was reassuring. 

+++++

Russia had hair as blond white as milk-thistle. 

Matthew’s own was wild, thick, and the glossy colour of honey. 

Their eyes, nearly matched in violet hue, struggled to meet this time. 

Russia had chosen to speak to Matthew in a secluded room, similar to the board room, but diminutive in size and much darker. Now that they were alone, the Russian seemed to have lost the capacity to speak. Russia gnawed at his thin bottom lip and slumped a little, betraying his nerves, which belied his apparent strength and intimidating size. He looked like a sheepish little boy hiding in an over-sized coat and scarf. 

The shy Canadian ruffled Kumajirou’s soft, white fur. Kumajirou, in response, struggled out of his grip. Matthew placed him on the floor with an irritated huff, “Relax, Kumakichi.” 

Matthew worried he had offended Russia with his overt staring. In retrospect, the Canadian couldn’t fathom what exactly had interested him so much in the other nation. As Russia appeared now, so embarrassed, he couldn't understand it. Matthew regretted causing Russia so much distress for no reason. Moreover, Matthew had called far too much attention to himself today. Everything felt so strange and out of place and he wanted to go home. 

“Russia?” Matthew inquired nervously, after a minute of silence. 

“Call me Ivan, comrade,” he said, stiffly. 

Matthew hid his surprise with difficulty. Nations had to be on very friendly terms to refer to each other by their human names. 

“Ivan,” Matthew said softly, the name springing oddly from his tongue, but not unpleasantly. “Y-you wanted to speak to me. Is something wrong?” 

“Net, there is nothing wrong,” Ivan said, stepping so close Matthew could feel the heat emanating from his body and smell the faintest hint of vodka on his breath. He smiled genially, visibly gathering his courage. “I hadn’t noticed before, but I think you are beautiful. And we will become one.” 

All the blood drained from Matthew’s face, looking like the pale idiot visage of the moon. “Excuse me?” he whispered, aghast. 

“Ah, it is just that I saw you were looking at me, and you did not flinch from me when I stared back at you! You are my friend, da? Then let us join together as one,” Ivan chirped happily. 

“Oh, Russia--” Matthew began. 

“Ivan,” the other corrected immediately, tsk-ing. “When we are one there will be no need for such formalities.” 

“Well, y-you must be crazy,” came Matthew’s small outburst, his voice still quiet, in spite of himself. “I would never, could never--! What does that even mean, eh?” 

“It means I could have you, my little pet, for as long as I enjoy you.” 

Russia’s eyes seemed to glow in the dark like twin lanterns, afire with some inexplicable, frightening emotion. Was it delight? Whatever it was, it made Matthew feel small and cold. 

Ivan was getting so amused by Matthew’s tiny bout of temper, his sputtering lips and flushed cheeks, he had to restrain his laughter and just barely managed to do so. The Russian had forgotten his brief lapse into shyness and felt they were quickly becoming close friends. “You look so untouched. Has anyone ever played with you before? So pretty and delicate, like a little flower...” Ivan giggled. 

“Braginsky, s-stop saying such things!...” 

Despite his words, Matthew felt a hot rush of excitement suddenly, his blood pumping furiously in his veins. So, Russia really wanted him, all of a sudden? Matthew wondered if he desired Ivan in return, and would he accept the other’s proposition? However, he quickly stamped down that train of thought. Braginsky played a dangerous game, like a cruel child that toys with small animals, one would end up hurt and the other could only win. And in spite of the physical attraction that grew between them, which seemed to draw them closer like magnets, Matthew knew he couldn’t risk being the loser of that game. 

Ivan was becoming petulant at Matthew’s dismissal of his desire to become one. He frowned, humming in displeasure. “You do not like Russia?” he asked, puzzled. 

Matthew half expected Alfred to burst through the door and deal the Russian a serious beating. In fact, unbeknownst to the two nations in the room, the American was poised against the wood of the door, listening closely with bated breath. Holding off playing the hero for once, Alfred was curious to hear how Matthew would respond to such strong advances. He coughed quietly, and swallowed his hatred for Russia, for the moment. 

It seemed that this time Matthew would have to be his own hero. 

Ivan’s hands flitted to Matthew’s face, his look almost one of concern, and Matthew resisted the crazy urge to bite his huge fingers off. 

“I certainly d-don’t like your hands on me,” Matthew cried, wishing his voice would rise to a suitable volume and stop trembling, internally cursing the angry tears in his eyes. 

Now gripping Matthew’s face tightly, Ivan dragged the other closer until their bodies were flushed together. Ivan looked as if he wanted to kiss him. Instantly, and without thinking, Matthew dealt him a blow between the legs with his knee. Ivan crumpled to the floor with a guttural moan, his hands cupping his injured groin. Kumajirou growled at Russia fiercely. 

“Little one, you are fiery!” grunted Ivan with a half-smile, as if it were all a game. 

“And you are nuts! Remember the pain between your legs next time you think I’m pretty enough to play with,” Matthew cried. And with that, the Canadian whirled about-face furiously. Matthew’s shoes slammed against the floor heavily and his angry, heaving breaths followed him out of the room. Opening the door, Matthew sent Alfred sprawling, and the Canadian gazed down at him in annoyance. 

“Hey, bro,” he grinned up at Matthew stupidly. “You really are something.” 

Later, Matthew wondered in awe how he mustered the courage to physically attack Russia and speak to him thusly. Matthew was ashamed by his lack of diplomacy, shocked by his violence, but proud of his strength.


	2. Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all those who left kudos or comments! 
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome.

It was several months later when Ivan Braginsky showed up at Matthew’s door in Ottawa. It was the early morning of a hot, humid summer. The Russian sported his usual thick coat and scarf, his face already red and glistening with sweat. Ivan smiled in greeting, half-panting. In his hand, he carried semi-crushed sunflowers.

Matthew shut the door in his face.

Politely, Ivan knocked again.

With a sigh, Matthew re-opened the door. “What do you want, Russia?”

“Ivan,” he corrected, good-humoredly.

“Ivan,” Matthew acquiesced, feeling somewhat abashed at his own rudeness. He should remember never to take a page from Alfred’s book. _ 'Unless it involves self-defense,' _ he thought, and then mentally added, _ 'against sexually aggressive Russians.' _

“What can I do for you?” Matthew asked, merely a whisper. 

The Russian handed him the vibrant flowers, which Matthew hesitantly accepted.

Sensing Canada’s uneasiness, Ivan swore internally. Though he had never noticed Matthew before -- and sometimes even now the other faded in and out of view -- Ivan hadn’t been able to banish the little Canadian from his thoughts since that day their eyes locked in the conference room. Ivan was depressed, thinking he had forced Matthew into hating him forever.

The Russian’s heavy boot tried to wear a hole in the welcome mat at Matthew’s front entrance, his eyes glued to his task, and afterward anywhere but at Canada. Ivan knew he was stupid to try to apologize, as like in the past, the necessary words only died on his lips. His pride was poison; it made him act foolishly and had kept him from Matthew all these months.

After a minute of watching Ivan being tortured by his own awkwardness, Matthew felt bad enough to invite him inside. “Please, just come in,” he sighed.

As Ivan passed him, Matthew suddenly felt self-conscious of his attire, or lack thereof. Embarrassingly, his outfit consisted of denim shorts only, rolled mid-way up the thigh. Matthew realized he had forgone wearing a shirt in the heat, but forgave himself because this was unexpected company, and tried to forget about it.

Ivan tried not to stare.

+++++

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Ivan had politely denied tea, a lingering leftover of British custom. Matthew tended to the steaming cup in front of him, needing something to do with his hands. The sunflowers, as pretty as a Van Gogh painting, stood in a tall vase on the kitchen counter and watched over them with happy, shining faces. Golden sunlight glided through the open windows in shifting, intermittent beams.

“Are you here to proposition me again?” Matthew asked gently, half-joking.

Ivan glanced up, surprised. “You are far more direct than I ever imagined,” he intoned.

This drew a startled laugh from Matthew. “Me? Direct?” He feigned shock, his hand to his heart. “And you, the picture of perfect gentlemanly etiquette! How dare I?”

Ivan barked out a laugh, in a way that seemed pleasantly genuine. The light of gaiety reached his eyes, for once, the orbs glistening a deep lilac. In return, Matthew gave him a sweet smile, also authentically his own.

“I think I wanted to… apologize,” Ivan managed to stammer out. “But, I do not know how to.”

“I think you just did,” Matthew chuckled.

Staring at Matthew with wide-eyes, Ivan smiled so brightly he rivaled the sun.

Ivan’s pale blond hair, illuminated by the morning light, glistened like a halo around his head. It was surprising how different Ivan appeared to Matthew now. Perhaps it was his apology, or something else, which transformed Ivan entirely. Russia looked like beauty and innocence in its purest form -- none of that darkness from before was present, gone was the danger that Matthew feared. Matthew felt weak with delight at this abrupt change in the other.

Russia began to speak with more confidence, in a sing-songy tone, which did little to mask the baritone of his voice, “I hope you can forgive me. I think I was struck dumb in the realization that such beauty lived across from me for so long, and I was too blind to see it. I wanted to seize you for myself before you slipped out of my reach.”

Matthew huffed softly in embarrassment, unused to flattery. He surveyed the Russian shyly from behind his amber curls. “I won’t hold a grudge,” he murmured.

Feeling joy burgeoning in his chest, Ivan surveyed the other. Poised as he was, Matthew was the perfect image of a classical Greek statue. Lithe grace and delicate pale beauty poured out from his very soul, a heady magic that bewitched the senses. Matthew’s naked skin was like luminescent marble, his muscles supple and smooth. Those periwinkle purple eyes, like shining gems, betrayed intense inner life. All of his emotions and thoughts lived there, and Ivan wanted to wade into their depths. There, even if he drowned, he would die happily. As the Russian watched him attentively, Matthew’s eyes took on a dream-like quality, as if he were drawing away.

“You forgive me?” Ivan asked, somewhat anxiously, “you are not going to disappear from me?”

“I don’t think I will be going anywhere,” Matthew murmured in assent. His smile, which was growing ever-present to Ivan’s delight, seemed to fade as he coughed lightly.

Ivan frowned. “Are you alright?”

Matthew shakily got to his feet, clutching his chest with one hand, and supporting himself on the kitchen counter with the other. He felt as if all the wind had been taken from him. His face turned ashen. “Ivan, s-something’s wrong!…” Matthew exclaimed.

Matthew began to sway, now coughing violently. As Ivan lurched to his feet, the other stumbled and fell to the ground, crying out Ivan’s name in fear. Matthew knocked over the vase of sunflowers on his way down, shattering the glass at his feet, scattering the flowers across the tiled floor.

Ivan was too late to catch him, and dismayed, he heard Matthew’s head cracked against the kitchen floor. He rushed to Matthew’s side, calling out his name, for the first time. Blood was spilling profusely, staining his pretty blond locks crimson, colouring the broken shards of glass and yellow petals a sickly deep red. Matthew had lost consciousness, but Ivan didn’t allow himself to panic. He hastily undid his coat and tore a strip from his shirt, pressed the fabric to Matthew's wound to stop the bleeding, and drew his limp body into his arms.

+++++

Matthew awoke to fireworks of colours exploding behind his eyelids.

He groaned, groggy and sore, feeling something soft beneath him and warmth enveloping him. Matthew realized it was sunlight that warmed his body and coloured his dark world with phosphorescent moving stars and patterns.

Matthew fought the onslaught of fatigue and pain, which threatened to carry him off to a shadowy purgatory once more, and opened his eyelids.

Something swam in Matthew’s immediate vision, a figure loomed over him, illuminated too brightly in the sun to focus on in his current state.

“W-who?--” Matthew struggled to speak, his voice hoarse, his violet cat-eyes slitted.

An insane idea, like a bolt of lightning, entered Matthew’s feverish head. He thought the figure was an angel of death come to reap his immortal soul -- robed in white instead of black, pitying instead of condemning. Moaning half in fear, half in resignation of his fate, Matthew recognized a voice from the fog of his existence, though only barely, speaking brusquely in a harsh foreign tongue. He heard a faint click.

“A-Are you going to take me?” Matthew whimpered, hand outstretched to touch his angel. “Take me away?”

Matthew felt a hand envelop his own, much larger, much rougher.

“If you want me to, little one,” cooed a familiar voice.

The peripherals of Matthew’s vision started to fade to black. He clutched that hand impossibly tight, as the orchid eyes which peered from a soft, round face smoldered like embers before him and accompanied Matthew into the dark.

+++++

The next time Matthew awoke, things were much clearer. The fog started to lift from his brain, which took with it much of his fever dreams. Matthew’s angel, that white-hot stranger, was gone from the room, those burning eyes faded from view.

Matthew realized he was in his own bed, smothered underneath too many hot blankets, drenched in sweat. He sat up with great difficulty.

The bedroom was bathed in black night, obscuring all from view. The Canadian felt more than saw that he was attired in the same shorts from before his fitful slumber, now drenched in sweat, but someone had put a t-shirt on him.

In an instant, blanching in horror, Matthew remembered his sudden illness and fall. Canada groaned in embarrassment at his shocking display of pitiful weakness. He buried his head beneath a mound of pillows.

_ 'Oh, Ivan!' _ he recalled next. During Matthew’s violent fit of coughing, as the floor rushed up to meet him, he remembered seeing Russia’s pale, parted-lipped face. Ivan had scrambled to his feet in an attempt to catch him. The larger nation must have carried Matthew to bed, dressed him, tucked him into blankets.

Matthew sat up once more, and clutching his throbbing head between his hands, he surveyed the room. Dark clouds which covered the high, pale moon whisked by and allowed milk-white moonlight to pour through the open window.

Matthew was, in fact, not alone.

A dark figure was slumped in a chair in the corner.

Matthew’s breath hitched in his throat.

“You are awake,” Ivan said, thickly.

“Y-Yes,” trembled Matthew’s little voice, barely audible. He wanted to thank Russia, draw him closer, he wanted to send him away.

“In your sleep, you were calling out to me,” Ivan said, mournfully. “You called me angel. You called me death.”

Ivan stood up. Matthew realized Russia had a bottle of vodka in his hand, its contents three quarters emptied. The hulking nation moved to lean over him, so close now, the whites of his eyes and candy-corn teeth glimmered in the moonlight. Matthew smelled the clear spirit faintly on his breath.

“What does that mean?” Ivan asked, regretfully. “Are you afraid of me?”

Matthew blanched, unable to tear his watery, wide-eyed gaze away from the other. Those eyes which seared into Matthew’s, like two white-hot pokers, searched for the answer that died on Canada’s pale lips.

Ivan sighed.

With all the gentleness of a man taming a frightened animal, Ivan touched Matthew’s arm, his shoulders, his neck. “I would never hurt you,” he cooed.

Matthew quivered beneath Ivan’s touch, as if blue, electric bolts licked his flesh instead of Russia’s wandering hands. Matthew’s breath came in short, strangled bursts. “How long was I out?” he asked in a small, hesitant voice.

“Five days,” Ivan replied.

Matthew felt horrified, then depressed. He felt more like an injured pet than the mighty nation that he was. Every inch of him ached with lingering fever. Matthew knew that if he was in such a bad state, something terrible had happened to his country.

“You were here all along,” Matthew stated, more than wondered. “God, what on earth happened to me? What happened to my people?”

“Do not worry, little pet. You are getting better now.”

“No!” Matthew shoved the blankets off of him, flushed with sudden anger, mustering all the strength in his weakened body to protest. “I am not a pet. I don’t need to be coddled. I need to know, Ivan, are my people safe?”

“You need more rest.” Ivan scowled. He recoiled from Matthew, now standing farther away, taking a swig from the bottle. “I can barely hear you, you’re so weak.”

“I need answers,” Matthew asserted, trying his best to raise his voice.

Ivan’s face darkened dangerously. As if Russia’s frightening, hostile temperament had willed it, dense clouds covered the moon, shadows crept in, and the room was suffused in inky black once more. Ivan almost completely disappeared from his view, but Matthew could still sense the other, towering over him like a dark and distant mountain.

Matthew, swallowing his fear, said more calmly, “I’m addressing the nation in you, now, Ivan. Would you sit idly by while your people suffered? Wouldn’t you need to know?”

“Da,” Ivan admitted, after a pause.

“Well?” asked Mathew.

Ivan took another few audible gulps from his bottle and then stated matter-of-factly, “Around twenty thousand lives were lost. Many more are displaced.”

Matthew felt his stomach turn violently, as the world seemed to drop out from under him. He thought he would be sick. “W-What happened?” he whispered.

“Storms, tornadoes, flooding,” Ivan said. “All in rapid succession, in different areas of the country. They attribute it to climate change.”

_ ‘This is something they were getting used to’, _ Matthew thought, nauseated, _ ‘this was something they had managed in the past.’ _

Matthew was suddenly sick beside his bed. After days of not eating, his stomach only threw up bile, which burned his throat like acid. The nation sputtered weakly and coughed, feeling drained beyond belief.

“It must have been apocalyptic this time,” Matthew murmured after a moment, wiping his mouth, lost in sorrow. His eyes filled with hot tears, which overflowed, and he began to weep.

Ivan felt his heart clench in sympathy. Canada’s tears were subdued and invisible, like the nation himself, his whimpers quiet and lonesome sounding in the dark. “Let me take care of you?” Ivan offered.

“And what of my people? Who will take care of them?” Matthew blubbered.

“You can do nothing for them until you have recovered fully.”

Matthew sobbed for another minute, quietly, then a strong voice inside him willed, _ ‘Get it together, Canada! _

“What about you,” Matthew asked, sobering, “why would you want to help me?”

Russia shrugged. “Maybe there is something about you worth saving.”

Matthew chuckled weakly. “But, is there something in you willing to sacrifice?” Matthew asked. “I would be asking a lot of you if you stayed.”

Ivan said, “I do not care. You will repay me one day.”

Matthew didn’t like the sound of that. But, even so, he acquiesced. Matthew just didn’t want to be alone anymore, he was so very afraid. “You win, Russia.”

Moonlight lit up Ivan’s face once more, illuminating his wolfish grin. “I think we both will win in the end, Matvey.”

With that mysterious statement lingering in his mind like a curse, Matthew let himself drift back into restless sleep, determined to wake up the next day and get better as soon as he possibly could.


	3. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who have read the story so far and left kudos and such. 
> 
> Let me know what you think. All comments and suggestions are hugely appreciated! To tell you the truth, I'm worried about my characterization. It's been so long since I've been into Hetalia. 
> 
> Enjoy reading!

The next day, Matthew was seated in his living room, blissfully alone. He was staring at the dark blue draperies that lined his windows, curled up comfortably on the couch, musing to himself. The rain pitter-pattered against the glass panes lightly, and the morning looked grim and grey. He didn’t want to think about the outside world right now. 

Matthew played with the gauze that was wrapped around his golden head. Ivan had patched Matthew up while he slept with an expert hand, assumedly having developed the skill throughout the many wars and revolutions he had endured. Matthew had seen the scars that littered Ivan’s hands, those small pale ones on his face -- the only bits of skin that Russia exposed. He had suffered so much. 

_ ‘He’s so strange,’ _ Matthew thought, _ ‘how could someone go through all that and still smile all the time like a happy kid?’ _

Matthew supposed that Russia’s thin veneer of childish joy was a means of concealment, though it did little to hide the malice, the despair, that rotted within him. The struggles that come with being such an old nation had certainly damaged Ivan. He put up a front in an attempt to bring people closer, but only ended up scaring them away when he revealed what’s underneath. Matthew felt drawn to Ivan but was wary of who the older nation was forced to become. 

Matthew would have felt sorry for him, but when he looked at Ivan, Matthew grew terribly afraid and angry at what appeared to be his own future peering out of those cold hard eyes. Matthew had seen his fair share of wartime and tragedy but feared that his troubles were only beginning. A tear slipped down his cheek to dribble off his chin. He needed to get stronger for his people. He wouldn’t slip into misery and hate like Ivan. 

Despite the tragic turn of his thoughts, Matthew was glad to be alone. He wanted to disappear, and though he could often become invisible to other people’s eyes -- Alfred called it his 'superpower' -- it was hard with Ivan watching him all the time like a sentinel. 

Recently, Ivan had gone out to buy more groceries. The Russian left no room for argument, and Matthew reluctantly agreed, offering him some money that Ivan wouldn’t take. Matthew would have protested more, only that he was beginning to feel intense hunger pangs in his stomach, like a worm eating its way to his backbone. It was only getting worse. He was starved and dehydrated, so frighteningly weak. His head ached insistently. 

“Why does he want to help me so badly?” Matthew whispered aloud to himself. “I need to learn to help myself.” 

Matthew began by draining the full cup of water that Ivan had left for him on the coffee table. He drank so enthusiastically, gulping it down, the water spilled from the corners of his mouth down his chin. He wiped his mouth, his stomach gurgling loudly. 

Next, he needed to eat. Matthew would do it himself. 

Wiping the solitary tear stain off his cheek, Matthew uncurled himself from his position and placed his bare feet on the floor. His feet were so pale in the soft grey light, white as bone. Matthew assumed he had a truly haggard appearance. He hadn’t showered in days. He unsteadily stood up, wincing at the strain it put on his body. It was a marvel he had managed his way down the stairs, though Ivan had offered a steadying arm the whole way to the couch. 

Before he left, Ivan had insisted that Matthew stay in bed and rest. Matthew argued fiercely, as he didn’t want to admit he was so terribly ill. Showing a rare stubbornness, Matthew demanded to go to the main floor and kept trying to get past Ivan, which the other man didn’t allow. Russia, at last, had snapped at Matthew to wait on the couch until he returned, at least. 

Well, so much for waiting. 

Matthew limped to the kitchen, already seeing black spots doting his vision. He sighed wearily, steadying himself against the kitchen counter. Stupidly, he tried placing his empty water glass in the sink and missed it entirely, and it shattered at his feet. 

“C’mon, Matthew,” he told himself. “Get yourself together.” 

Matthew decided to clean that up later. He was determined to save his strength for what he had decided to do. Looking through his empty cupboards, he realized that it was perhaps justified that Ivan paid for the groceries just this once. Russia seemed to have a healthy hunger, as all the food that Matthew stockpiled had all but disappeared completely within the five days that he was unconscious. In fact, that was probably why Ivan had suggested he pay for everything. Matthew searched for a few familiar ingredients, finding that Ivan hadn’t touched his baking materials. He smiled to himself, pleased. This was the first small bit of joy he had felt since his sickness. 

Careful to avoid the glass on the floor, Matthew began preparing the ingredients. He had to stop frequently to take deep breaths and rest against the counter. He saw this as an opportunity to prove his enduring strength, Matthew wouldn’t let himself -- and by extension, his people -- be brought so low. Making pancakes was second nature to him now, and Matthew let his thoughts remain blissfully blank. Though, he remembered to make many extra pancakes for Ivan to enjoy when he got back. It would be Matthew’s small thanks for all that Ivan had done for him. 

+++++

A while later, Matthew was finished, and the pancakes, a beautiful golden colour, smelled delightful. His head was swimming, and he felt far weaker than before, but he was very proud even though it was a relatively small accomplishment. Matthew had put some pancakes in the oven to stay warm when he heard the doorbell sound. He was confused for a moment, as Ivan told him he would leave the door unlocked for when he returned, and he would have just walked in. It was someone else. 

“Matthew?” called a heavily accented voice. “Are you there? The door’s open, may I come in?” 

_ ‘Shit, it’s Arthur,’ _ Matthew thought. He sighed, wondering if he should pretend he’s not home. But Matthew shook himself of that thought, knowing that it would be an injustice to his dad. He was probably just worried about him. _ ‘For good reason,’ _ Matthew thought begrudgingly. He would have to put up a tough front for his father, as Arthur worried way too much. 

“Come in,” Matthew called. 

Arthur made his way to the kitchen, all wet from the rain, his beetle brows already drawn in concern. He looked at Matthew and gasped. “Christ, Matthew, I heard it was bad but I didn’t know. I-I would have come sooner,” he tried to apologize. 

Matthew stopped him by holding up a hand. “I’m fine,” Matthew said. “Jeez, do I really look that bad?” 

Arthur scowled at him, as if Matthew were making a poor attempt at a joke, though worry still presented itself in his eyes. “You look half-dead, for God’s sake. You’re injured, as pale as paper, and you seem like you can barely stand up.” 

Matthew tried to smile at him weakly. “Well, I made breakfast.” 

“And a lot of it too,” Arthur noted dryly, looking at the mess Matthew had made of the kitchen. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” 

Matthew decided to ignore that, doing his best to sit at the kitchen table like a normal person, without betraying his deplorable weakness. He already had his plate in front of him, the pancakes smelled delicious and were covered in real maple syrup. “Help yourself, dad.” 

Arthur thanked him, though reluctantly, and walked around the island in Matthew’s large kitchen to make himself a plate. Unfortunately, Arthur stepped on the shards of glass and crushed some beneath his shoe. “Matthew, what the bloody hell happened here?” he exploded. 

“I-I just,” Matthew stammered, “forgot to pick it up. Sorry, dad.” 

Arthur rubbed the wet raindrops from his forehead, shutting his green eyes for a moment in thought. When he reopened them, his face was strained. “Listen to me, I know you’re not alright. I want to help,” he said earnestly. 

“There’s a dustpan underneath the sink,” Matthew quipped. 

“Matthew...” Arthur sighed, looking down at him with an intense frown. “I’ve convinced the Prime Minister to reach out to Canada and offer financial support. We’re going to send in volunteers for cleanup and the like.” 

“Arthur, you don’t have to do that. I know that you’re struggling just as much as I am.” 

“It was awful for a while there,” Arthur admitted, his face going dark. “But we’re recovering, I’m recovering... Matthew, I haven’t had it as bad as you. And your population is so small--” 

“We’ll get through,” Matthew interrupted him again, feeling as if he were about to cry once more. God, he hated how anger affected him, flooding him with unwelcome tears. Matthew didn’t know why, but he suddenly wanted Arthur out of his house right away. Maybe he couldn’t face the truth which betrayed itself in Arthur’s pitying gaze. Pity was the last thing he wanted, it was contemptible. 

“With my help, you will,” Arthur asserted. “Matthew, the world is changing. I want to be there for you when it does.” 

“Fuck, Arthur!” Matthew snapped. “I appreciate you coming all this way, and I know you’re worried about me. But please, just leave me alone. I just need to get my strength back, that’s all. The country will be fine, nothing’s changed. I can do this.” 

Arthur looked shocked for a moment, then hurt. “Son, you’re in denial.” 

“N-no, I’m not.” Matthew felt the tears brimming and then fall. He wiped them away hastily, glaring up at his dad with a sorry look on his face. 

“Matthew, have you stepped foot outside since it happened? The country’s grieving, they’re scared it might happen again. Let me help you and bring a semblance of hope back to your nation.” He placed a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, which Matthew immediately shook off. 

“Matthew, have some respect for me!” Arthur said angrily. 

Matthew bowed his head, suddenly ashamed. He was silent for a long minute. “Dad, I love you. I know what you’re trying to do, okay? But at least let me think about it. I can’t accept what you’re offering right now, I-I just can’t.” 

“Let me stay here until you do,” Arthur said, softening. 

“N-no!” Matthew erupted, blushing ever so slightly. He suddenly remembered Ivan, who would probably be returning home any minute -- it would be a catastrophe if Arthur saw Ivan was staying here while Matthew refused his own father’s help. “Can you go now, please? I’m sorry, I just need to be alone,” Matthew sniffled. 

“I thought we were going to have breakfast.” Arthur looked very concerned. 

“No, no. Another time, dad,” Matthew said hastily. Again, he wiped away the tears which slowed but didn’t cease, and offered Arthur a faltering smile. “I’m okay, I promise.” 

“Well, bloody hell. At least let me clean this mess up,” Arthur said, kicking the glass slightly with his shoe. He looked more upset than Matthew had seen him in a long time. 

“No, dad. I’m serious, I can handle it.” 

Arthur grumbled, crossing his arms. “You remind me more and more of your brother every day. So secretive, so stubborn.” 

“Don’t say that,” Matthew whispered. 

“I’m sorry, son. I don’t mean that,” Arthur said, somewhat begrudgingly. Even so, his expression was loving, and he tucked a stray lock behind Matthew’s ear. “Take care of yourself. I wish you would let me in, I understand you more than most.” 

“I will dad, just not today. Please.” 

Arthur finally agreed to leave. Matthew stood to say his goodbyes, wobbling slightly. His dad gave him an overwhelmingly tight hug, which threatened to make Matthew collapse again. He did, partly, back into his chair. Arthur bent to pat his cheek, so many words left unspoken between them, with tears in his eyes. “I’ll come whenever you need me,” he said softly. 

Matthew thanked him. And Arthur left. 

Only a moment after the door shut, Ivan appeared in the kitchen. 

“Matvey,” Ivan addressed him. 

Matthew had his head in his hands. He couldn’t stop crying. “What are you doing here?” he whispered. “H-how long have you been hiding?” 

“Long enough,” Ivan said. “You should accept what he is offering you.” 

“Hell, what do you know?” Matthew grumbled. 

Ivan laughed shrilly. “I know more now than you will in another twenty lifetimes.” 

Matthew considered what Ivan had said. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just don’t know what to do. I don’t want to think about what’s happened. Maybe that’s weakness, or hubris, but I just want to feel strong again and forget about this whole thing.” 

Matthew’s pancakes were cold. He tore his gaze away from them to gaze up at Russia, who had moved closer to him. His hair was sopping wet from the rain, his scarf and jacket soaked, his eyelashes dark and sticking together. Ivan’s eyes were brighter than ever, earnest. Matthew glanced out the window and saw that it was coming down hard now. He didn’t want to look at Ivan anymore. 

“Your pride blinds you to the truth, Matvey,” he uttered. “Let yourself feel the pain.” 

Thunder rolled outside, the kitchen was very dark now. “I am in pain!” Matthew cried. “I don’t want your help, I don’t want anybody's. I want this all to be some sick and twisted nightmare that I’ll wake up from.” 

“It’s not!” Ivan yelled back, his voice a thousand times louder than Matthew’s own. “It’s not a dream. It is reality. And until you can accept that, nothing will get better. You’ll die stuck in a past that doesn’t exist anymore.” 

A bolt of lightning struck nearby, deafeningly loud, but neither of the two cared to notice. They felt much fiercer storms brewing inside their own hearts. 

Matthew wasn’t crying anymore. He stared back at Russia, who had suddenly kneeled by Matthew’s side. “Sounds like you’re talking from experience,” Matthew whispered. 

“The past still haunts me like a curse, Matvey.” 

Matthew’s lips parted, he inhaled sharply. Ivan was so intriguing, like the thunderstorm which raged outside, he was a force to be reckoned with -- beautiful in his wrath, both darkness and light. Ivan’s pale brows drew together, a strange expression, which he had never shown before. It looked like melancholy. 

Ivan spoke again, “I’m afraid I won’t ever escape it. But you still can. Happiness can be recovered if only you’ll accept the misery you currently experience. Be better than me and forget your pride.” 

“Why are you being so honest with me?” Matthew asked. “So kind…” he trailed off. 

Ivan touched Matthew’s cheek. “As I said, I think there is something in you worth saving. And maybe, though I am not worth much, what’s left of me is willing to sacrifice it all.” 

“You’re not at all what I pictured, Ivan,” Matthew admitted. 

“I am not acting like myself,” Ivan said, blushing slightly. It was endearing. 

Matthew reached a trembling hand to Ivan’s face. They held each other and gazed into each other’s eyes wonderingly. Ivan leaned forward to kiss Matthew’s lips. The kiss reminded Matthew of chemistry episodes from the discovery channel, when the right two elements were put together, they would explode. Ivan grew bold, it was apparent how much he desired Matthew, he nibbled on Matthew’s lower lip and explored his mouth with eagerness. The thunder rolled outside even more violently, and they gripped each other closer, only stopping when Matthew ran out of breath. 

“I’m sorry,” Matthew said suddenly. His lips were the only thing that had colour in his face. They were pale pink. 

“Net, do not be sorry,” Ivan said seriously. 

“You’re right, I need to face what’s wrong with me,” Matthew agreed softly. “I’m sorry that I’m using you as a crutch, I don’t mean it.” 

Ivan tried to hide the hurt that threatened to contort his features. The last thing Ivan wanted from Matthew was to be used by him and discarded. He bit his lip, standing up and turning away from Matthew. “I understand.” Ivan clutched his heart, which started beating at an absurdly fast pace. 

Matthew hastily got to his feet. “I’m going to call Trudeau now. Get this all sorted out.” 

Matthew left the kitchen, slightly unsteadily, just as Ivan’s heart splattered on the floor, landing in some broken glass. “Ugh,” he grunted, knowing that it would be hell to deal with. “Stupid fuckin’ thing.”


	4. Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of papers and exams delayed the update more than I expected. Rough. As a consolation, this chapter is a lot bigger than usual. Lots of stuff happens, so brace yourselves. 
> 
> I understand that the plot of sudden natural disasters seems vague, confusing, and unlikely. But, no worries, because I have a plan! ;) It will all be explained in detail soon.
> 
> Please like and comment, you lovelies. Don't forget, all suggestions are welcome. This is my first multi-chapter fic, so I'd love to hear any and all thoughts. 
> 
> ** TW: ** violence, slight gore, implied non-con (though not actual)

Matthew hadn’t had a single bite of his pancakes. Normally, he would be extremely disappointed that he had left them cold and untouched, but he was convinced his current endeavor was far more important. Canada felt stronger now than he did before. His determination fueled him beyond what he thought himself capable of in his sickly state -- he knew he needed to do this. This time, Matthew was determined to help the country in a way that went beyond his own physical needs. He was ready to accept what had happened.

Matthew hobbled over from the kitchen back to the living room, grabbing his house phone from the coffee table and gingerly sitting back down on the plush leather couch. The Canadian curled himself up once again, tucking his legs under him. The house was silent but for the sound of the thunderstorm outside, which at one point was fierce in intensity, but was already dying down -- Matthew could hear it moving away quickly. 

Canada dialed the familiar number, and his breath hitched as it rang, lonely sounding, hollow. A feeling of dread filled Matthew suddenly, unexpectedly, as if some part of him intuited he would receive horrible news. The ringing stopped, clicked. 

“My God, Matthew! You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been trying to get in contact with you,” Trudeau groaned, having recognized Matthew’s number. His voice sounded strained as if he had aged a decade since last they spoke. The excitement of the phone call seemed to instantly drain the Prime Minister. “Check your messages, there must be over a hundred phone calls from me. I had people stop by your house multiple times, but no one answered, not once. I thought you died in a ditch somewhere.”

Matthew sighed wearily, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I pretty much almost did, minus the ditch.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’re not dead. God knows what that would mean for this nation.” Trudeau’s voice drew away, as if holding the receiver away for a moment, probably composing himself. Matthew felt pity squeeze his stomach in a vice-like grip. He was sad he hadn’t been there for his Prime Minister in these trying times. 

“I assume you’re up to speed?” Trudeau asked. 

“I heard from a… source... that the death tolls approximate twenty thousand,” Matthew admitted quietly, his voice hoarse. 

Trudeau fell silent for a moment. A chorus of voices blended together unintelligibly in the background, like a distant hum. 

“Who’s the source?” Trudeau sounded choked up. 

“A friend,” Matthew said, hesitantly. 

“That’s not correct.” 

“I’m sorry?” Matthew’s heart dropped to his stomach. He sat up a bit. 

“No, you don’t need to apologize. It’s unfair that someone would give you such false information.” Trudeau sighed, apparently dreading what he was about to say. “We lost over half a million lives. And the numbers keep going up as living conditions worsen.” 

_ ‘No, no, no, please, no,’ _ Matthew thought, desperately wishing the words weren’t true. He felt that horror had gripped his heart and refused to let go, like a snake it coiled around his insides, growing ever tighter. His face turned ashen. How could this be real? What cruel, terrible god inflicted this upon them all? 

“Y-you can’t be serious,” Matthew said in shock, gaping. His body tremored as if an earthquake threatened to rend the ground beneath him. Ivan had kept this from him -- no, had deliberately lied to him! What, did Russia think Matthew was too weak to handle the truth? He cursed under his breath, shutting his eyes so tightly it hurt. 

“I’m afraid this isn’t something I would joke about,” Trudeau replied, his voice hardening. “Nations are talking, no one has seen such devastation to a country like ours. Not due to climate change, not so quickly. Every province was hit hard, every major city, except for Ottawa. It hardly makes any sense.” 

“I can’t believe this,” Matthew murmured. His heart hammered hard and fast against his ribs, like the wings of a bird beating its cage.

Trudeau inhaled sharply. “Matt, you have to believe it. I know you’ve been out of commission for a long time now, but it’s time to face the facts.”

Matthew, though he tried desperately to stifle it, couldn’t help the pitiful whimper that escaped his lips. Trudeau was right, of course. Is this not what Matthew set out to discover? The truth, the whole ugly, beaten face of it, so he could bring it close and try to mend it. “Okay,” Canada said, shakily. “Please continue.” 

“England offered some assistance, and so has America and France. Surprisingly, Russia stepped in and is our greatest supporter in this mess. Without them, I’m sure we couldn’t survive. We’re going to take the offers right away, as the reparations required will be in the billions.” Trudeau sighed deeply, yet another time, like the pained, shaking breath of a dying man. “Now is the time to act -- morale is so low. I’m afraid of how people will react in such desperate times. We’ve been hesitating for far too long.” 

So, England had offered his proposal anyway. He was right for doing so, Matthew now suspected, for if what Trudeau was saying is true it wouldn’t be long before people started rioting -- if they hadn’t done so already. And Russia, why the fuck was he helping out so much? Matthew hated relying on anyone, even family, but especially Russia, considering everything. However, Matthew didn’t have time to reflect on that very much, as another far more disturbing thought popped into his head. Canada was worried that if he sought the answer to this question, it would crush him, but he felt it was his duty to know despite the emotional burden it might lay on him. 

“Justin, how long was I out?” 

“God, Matthew. You really don’t know a thing,” Trudeau said, sounding despondent, not angry. Matthew sucked in a breath in anticipation. “I couldn’t reach you for about a month.” 

_ ‘Fuck!’ _ Matthew cursed himself a hundred times over in his head. His suspicions were correct. Braginsky hadn’t uttered a word of truth since Matthew came to. _ ‘How could I be so goddamn stupid? Stupid, stupid, stupid!’ _ he thought, actually slapping his hand to his forehead. 

“All right,” is all that Matthew managed to say aloud. His voice was strained with emotion, but he tried not to let it show. “W-we should accept the help from our friends, of course. We’ll be even more in debt, but we need the aid. Hopefully, s-some of it is just charity.”

“A relatively small amount is from volunteers and charity organizations,” Trudeau told him. “The UN is involved. The only reason our allies aren’t offering more is that the world is starting to realize that climate change is a global epidemic that’s on the rise. We should take advantage before more countries start to be affected and rescind their helping hands.” 

Matthew was silent. He didn’t like the implications of that at all. 

A voice shouted insistently on the other end. Trudeau cursed. “I have to go now, Matthew. I’m sorry, but I have barely slept this past month, as everything requires my attention. I hope to see you soon, we could all use your support.” 

“Yes,” Matthew managed to choke out. The phone line clicked, Trudeau hung up. 

Matthew looked at his phone really for the first time since waking up. He registered the date: It was the twenty-second of July. A full twenty-eight days after he had taken ill. 

Matthew felt like he was spiraling into a cold, dark pit. 

+++++ 

Matthew struggled his way up the stairs, and like a child, he did so on all fours. Only, he moved at an extraordinarily slow pace, huffing like an old dog the entire way to his bedroom. Ever since Trudeau revealed to him the truth, he had felt an intense sense of vertigo that made the world spin around him wildly. Everywhere he tread felt like uneven, treacherous ground. Even his thoughts seemed to be swirling about his head, incoherent, like water around a drain. 

Matthew made it to his bedroom, immediately collapsing on the bed. He needed to collect his thoughts. Breathing deeply for several minutes, he felt his mental faculties begin to return to him slowly. His body and mind eased gradually out of numbness. The storm outside had ceased already, and the sun tried to struggle through the dense grey clouds. Sometimes, it would shine a weak beam of light through his bedroom window, shifting and intermittent. The sight of the pale, striving sunlight slightly warmed the Canadian and brought life back to his limbs slowly. 

Matthew sat up in bed and accidentally caught sight of himself in the large mirror which hung above the dresser opposite. 

Matthew stared at himself in the mirror and hardly recognized his reflection. He was horrendously gaunt, pale, and unwashed looking. His curls hung dull and limp beneath the white bandages that encircled his head. Canada seemed like a shadow of himself, a hut of bones hollow on the inside, ready to crumble. There were dark half-moons under his eyes -- those tired eyes, which stared back as cold and lifeless as distant stars. 

_ ‘God, I’m proud of Arthur,’ _ Matthew thought wryly. _ ‘I’m surprised he didn’t call the paramedics, the police, the fire department, and the Prime Minister upon seeing me like this.’ _

But, for all his worrying, at least his father tried to tell Matthew the truth. There were others that could do a lot worse to him -- that certainly have done worse by him. Russia, who brought Matthew close, kissed him fervently on the lips, only to spew lies into his mouth like a deadly poison, liquidizing Matthew’s insides. 

On a whim, Matthew began to unravel the bandages around his head slowly. He stared at his reflection as he did so, wincing. He was afraid of the pain he might inflict by releasing the pressure and exposing his wound to open air. But, as he might have suspected, the bandages came away clean. There was no blood to soak the cloth or his hair. In fact, there wasn’t even a scar to betray what had happened to him a month before. He was completely healed. 

The gravity of the truth that Trudeau had imparted to him began to weigh on Matthew heavily. He had been bed-ridden for almost a full month! And Ivan had bandaged him beyond what was necessary to hide his lie, that cursed bastard. Ivan had likely bathed Matthew, washed his hair and sweating skin. And Canada prayed to God that Russia hadn’t attempted to do more than that with his unconscious body. 

Matthew felt so unspeakably violated. He couldn’t look at himself anymore, so he plopped back down onto his back. 

At least there was minor consolation in the fact that his body had been so ill, it had sent every cell of Matthew’s body into stasis. All his normal bodily functions had ceased, a death-like sleep, as a kind of fail-safe until he recovered a little. It ensured that he wouldn’t starve to death or, well, need to answer the call of nature. The only other time this happened, Matthew remembered, was during the influenza pandemic of 1918, though not for nearly half as long, as it didn't result in a fraction of the deaths. Regardless, Matthew was glad he didn’t wake up to find out he had soiled himself; or worse, to know that Russia had to clean him up for a full month as if he were an invalid. 

But how could that concern him when so many of his people had died? -- so much more than Matthew was first made to believe. His people were out there grieving, suffering, probably harboring hate against the government which had yet to make solid reparations. Perhaps they wondered what had happened to the face of their country, to Matthew. Ivan had taken away Matthew’s right to the truth, undermined his duties to the Canadian people, had effectively castrated him through his lies and by keeping Matthew all to himself. 

Matthew stared holes into the ceiling. What the fuck was he going to do about Ivan? How would Matthew confront him -- could he even confront him? Hitting Russia between the legs, that one fateful day, was an extraordinary chance occurrence. Matthew could never repeat that bravery, he was sure. It seemed to him to be an act of God, if He existed -- His righteous violence working through Matthew, using him as the instrument to implement divine justice. Matthew felt he was at a loss of what to do now. No god seemed to have a plan for him today but to bury him. Canada couldn’t be brave. He was so physically weak right now. Psychologically, he was all the worse -- so sick with grief and betrayal, he couldn’t summon the will to even move anymore, much less think properly.

Nonetheless, as he stared blankly at the ceiling, anxious thoughts began to take hold in his consciousness, treading a familiar path in his brain, like weary travelers on a beaten road. _ ‘Why does everyone pretend I don’t really exist?’ _ he wondered, painstakingly. _ ‘Like I’m less -- well, alive -- than everyone else?’ _

It was as if Matthew’s life, his thoughts, his goals, didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He could be glossed over, erased, eased by lies that made him a simple little thing, easy to handle. It seemed that to everyone else, Matthew wasn’t a warm-blooded man, but a semi-transparent phantom -- a ghost whose pain should be ignored and buried. Otherwise, if they acknowledged him, they would invite unwelcome madness into the home. Ivan had taken this image of Matthew and had used it to treat Canada worse than any other before him. 

Matthew felt that the pain of the reveal and of his own bleak circumstances had soaked his spine in poison. His mind turned to hate. He wanted to punish Ivan, desperately. But he would have to do it in his own way. Matthew could be sinister, calculating, but he could not be violent. Not with his words or his actions. He could do something much, much worse, though. 

Matthew just needed to bring Ivan close, gain his trust, and then he would destroy him. Matthew could play Ivan’s game of psychological warfare and win. He had seen the way Ivan looked at him, how he clutched Matthew close as if he were a lifesaver, how he pledged himself to Matthew and kissed him with passion. All of this, Matthew thought, could not be faked. He would use those feelings against Ivan. He would break his heart into a thousand different pieces and laugh as Ivan shattered. 

Matthew smiled a cruel smile, something unbecoming, so unlike him. But just as quickly as it came, it faltered. 

_ ‘I think there is something in you worth saving,” _ Ivan had said. _ ‘And maybe, though I am not worth much, what’s left of me is willing to sacrifice it all.’_

Matthew’s thoughts suddenly seemed unwelcome, invasive. Shutting his violet eyes against the memory of Ivan’s kiss, the feel of his imposing body, the strange comfort of his presence and his words -- God, there was a part of him that loved that. But no, Ivan was almost certainly insane, unspeakably wicked, and a liar. Matthew held fast to the hatred he felt bubbling up inside him, which threatened to consume him whole. He wouldn’t give that psychopath the satisfaction of thinking him alluring for one more second. 

There was a sudden noise. Like a weak, drawn-out groan. 

Matthew ached horribly like he had received a terrible beating, and there wasn’t an inch of him left unscathed. But upon hearing that little grumble, seemingly sounding out from beneath him, he got to his feet hastily and kneeled next to the bed, looking beneath. His long blond hair streamed in front of him -- it hadn’t been cut in a long time -- and blocked his vision. He felt the intense urge to discover the source of the noise, without knowing why. Before he could flick his hair from his face, a muzzle nuzzled itself into the strands, spreading them apart and giving him a gentle kiss on the nose. 

Matthew gasped, his lavender eyes wide as saucers. “Kumichou!” 

The little bear came out from underneath the bed. “Who?” 

“Oh, no!” Matthew brought his hand to his lips, holding back sudden tears. His friend looked so frighteningly thin -- Matthew had never seen him like this before! Kumajirou’s fur seemed to be falling out in thick, white clumps. His black eyes were unfocused and watery. The polar bear whined softly, looking up at Matthew, tilting his head. 

Matthew scooped his friend up into his arms, holding him gently. They hugged like that for several minutes, on the floor, neither wanting to give up the close contact. It was uncharacteristic of Kumajirou to be so docile, so malleable. He was very, very sick. Matthew cried softly into his friends thinning fur, murmuring over and over how sorry he was that he had left him alone. Kumajirou had seemingly suffered much more than Matthew had. The polar bear felt so small and limp in his arms. 

“It’s okay,” Kumajirou said softly. 

“No, no. It’s not! I’m so sorry, I’ll never leave you alone again.” Matthew petted Kumajirou all over, feeling his bones sticking out, sharp as splinters. Matthew couldn’t help the tears that wet his face. “W-why didn’t you come to find me?”

“Don’t cry,” Kumajirou said, and then added: “Oh. I was asleep.” 

Matthew realized that Kumajirou had probably only recently woken up. His favourite place to sleep was under Matthew’s bed, and Canada remembered that Kumajirou had curled up there shortly before Ivan had even visited in the first place -- before all this madness happened. All alone, Kumajirou had fallen into a feverous sleep that he didn’t wake up from for almost an entire month. It looked like it had nearly killed him. Drying his eyes in Kumajirou’s fur, Matthew’s sobs began to escape him loudly, sounding like the hiccuping, teary relief of a mother who had nearly lost her child. Maybe, hearing this, the usually stoic Kumajirou felt a pity so strong it inspired him to speak up once more. 

“I love you,” came the bear’s tiny, even voice. 

Feeling his heart palpitate with tenderness, Matthew clutched Kumajirou closer to his chest with the utmost gentleness he could muster, and murmured into his fur, “I love you so much more.” Matthew’s sobs subsided slowly with the simple comfort his friend brought to him. 

“Hungry,” Kumajirou said after a minute, pushing away, his eyes focusing into Matthew’s with some difficulty. 

_ ‘Me too,’ _ Matthew thought, sighing outwardly. As if in response to that thought, his stomach growled insistently. Remembering that Ivan was in the kitchen, and desperately wanting to avoid him for the moment, Matthew decided to take matters into his own hands once more. The rain had subsided to what was barely a light drizzle -- and sometimes the sun poked through -- so he would go to the supermarket himself. Besides, Matthew assumed that Ivan hadn’t bought any fish for Kumajirou to eat. And Canada could get himself a little something to nibble on while he was out, too, without any uncomfortable company. Matthew could use the time away to hatch a more concrete plan of how to get back at Ivan, as well. 

“Kuma, can you come with me to get food?” Matthew didn’t want to leave his bear alone anymore. He didn’t want to be separated from him at all. They needed to stay together from now on, but he also worried that Kumajirou’s precarious health wouldn’t allow it. 

“Carry,” Kumajirou said. 

Matthew groaned, quickly resigning himself to the duty. “Shit, okay.” 

Holding Kumajirou in his arms, Matthew got to his feet with huge, stumbling effort and heaving breaths. Despite how light his friend had become, Matthew was also far weaker and thinner than before. But he was determined to keep his friend close until he saw him better. Kumajirou wrapped his arms around Matthew’s neck and nuzzled into his chest. 

“Who?” 

“Canada,” Matthew huffed. “Now shush, please. Or Russia will hear us.” 

+++++

Ivan had taken off his large coat, scarf, and undershirt. To his annoyance, his favourite clothes were covered in blood and had to be washed thoroughly. He stood half-dressed in the kitchen, hunched over the sink and busy picking the bloodied glass pieces out of his heart. He hummed a nameless tune, discarding the shards in a plastic bag he had found, careful not to squeeze the organ too hard. Russia’s heart dribbled blood into the sink each time it beat and sometimes splattered when he removed a particularly large fragment. This marked yet another time Ivan was glad that he couldn’t feel the organ once it became separated from him. _ ‘This looks pretty painful,’ _ he thought, giggling. 

_ ‘I should be making Matvey take the glass out of my heart,’ _ Ivan thought next, amusedly. _ ‘Watch his horror-struck face as he cleans up the mess he made.’ _

Ivan believed that Matthew was to blame for the sudden expulsion of his vital organ. The little Canadian made him feel things that Ivan hadn’t felt in a very long time, if ever. And though his heart often fell out randomly, seemingly without a cause, Ivan knew that this time it was most definitely Matthew’s fault -- his proximity, his enchanting kiss, and the apparent rejection which followed had stirred Ivan’s heart to a frenzy, so it burst out of his chest. 

_ ‘I’m sorry I’m using you as a crutch,’ _ Matthew had said. _ ‘I don’t mean it.’ _

Thinking of this, Ivan laughed bitterly. So, Matthew thought he would make use of him, and when he recovered fully he would toss Ivan aside as if he were worth next to nothing. Ivan felt his heart beat violently in his hands as if mourning the thought of Matthew abandoning him. “Oh, no,” Ivan soothed, stroking his heart gently, his voice in a sing-song. “Don’t worry, Matvey is misunderstanding!~” Ivan was sure that it was he who would make use of Matthew, not the other way around -- and Russia would do so in many ways. He would soak up every bit of Canada, nothing would go to waste, every advantage possible would be seized. The only difference is that Ivan would never be done with other, he would never discard him cruelly. Russia would keep Matthew by his side forever and own him, flaunt him, his precious treasure. Ivan’s heart would never have reason to leave him again because it would be happy where it was with Matthew nearby. The mere thought of it excited Ivan immensely. 

Briefly after Matthew had taken ill, Ivan had decided to keep the man locked away and protect him from the outside world forever. Damned be the people outside, those back home in Russia. For the moment, inexplicably, all Ivan wanted was to keep Matthew as close as possible, to possess him, perhaps to be healed by him in the process. Ivan desperately desired his loneliness to go away, and the Canadian was the only one other than his sisters that so much as cast Ivan a second glance. Matthew’s looks, his presence, everything about him was intoxicating to Ivan. The Canadian’s voice was like the sweetest music, even when he was in tears -- no, especially when he was grieving. Matthew broke and put himself back together in the most fascinating and endearing way. Like a Nesting doll, he fell apart to reveal what was hard and small within, and then reassembled, in beauty and colour, with such breathtaking potential to come undone once more. 

Ivan recalled that day when Matthew had first lapsed into consciousness. 

_ Ivan was on the phone to Putin, keeping a close eye on Matthew’s sleeping, troubled face with eyes well adjusted to the darkness. Canada had been as still as death for a couple of weeks by this point -- he could neither eat nor drink. The supernatural nature of his being kept Canada alive, but barely. He didn’t respond to Ivan calling his name. He hardly stirred when Ivan rubbed a damp cloth over his hair, his face, his exposed arms, and legs, every couple of days. But at this moment, Ivan was just content to watch Matthew’s face -- the Canadian seemed, even unconscious, as if he wanted to say something, wanted to protest -- his eyebrows were furrowed, his lips puckered. _

_ “Ivan, are you there?” his boss's voice demanded in rapid Russian. _

_ “Yes,” Ivan said, somewhat sheepishly. He had let his mind wander and stopped listening. _

_ “I said that I want you back home immediately. No exceptions.” _

_ Ivan took a long sip of vodka, sighing. “No, sir. I have a plan.” _

_ “I don’t give one shit. I’ve never seen you act like this, so, so uncontrollable!” _

_ Ivan laughed brightly. “You haven’t known me long at all.” _

_ “Don’t talk back. Unless you have something incredible to offer, I’ll have my men retrieve you, you shit.” _

_ “They can fucking try,” Ivan spat, suddenly enraged. Scowling, he clutched the bottle so hard his knuckles turned white, and he would have shattered it in his hand if he hadn’t thought better and taken a deep breath to calm himself. “No, no. It’s fine… Okay, you have heard in the news about what's happened here. When little Canada wakes up, I’ll get him to trust me. We can use the situation to our benefit.”_

_ “What do we need from Canada?” Putin sounded aggravated, but perhaps a little intrigued. “How do you think this little scheme will work?” _

_ “Well, when Matthew realizes what I’m doing for him, he’ll come to us for support! The whole nation is crippled, and they’ll need lots of aid to revive their economy. Russia can offer to help produce and export Canadian oil and petroleum -- their biggest market, at a standstill right now. Our support can breathe life back into the country. We’ll send men, money, re-build their institutions, both social and economical. Eventually, using our contacts, we can cut the profits they’re making -- by fattening ourselves up, Canada will have to rely on us. Forever. Our economy will boom. Is good, no?” _

_ At first, Putin tried to protest. All legal matters, stupid fears. All the things that hold one back from achieving greatness. Russia tried not to be irritated, instead, he focused on the pleasantries of his dream, drifting into a reverie. _

‘This is beneficial in so many ways,’ _ Russia had thought. _ ‘I get to help out Matvey, my nation, and myself. Oh, the times we’ll share together!’ _ He couldn’t help but grin as happy tears filled his eyes. _

_With some more convincing, Putin became moderately interested in the idea. That is, if Ivan could somehow pull it all off. Hearing Matthew wake for the first time, Ivan quickly hung up the phone. In delirium, Canada stared at Ivan with eyes blown wide in fright and called him “the angel of death.” Ivan shuddered. Matthew didn’t understand Russian, so why was he so afraid? Well even if he had understood, Ivan promised Matthew eternal life by his side, a saving grace from that which threatened to destroy him. Ivan would never, ever let Matthew be taken away from him. Nothing terrible would happen to his little Canada. _

Sluggishly breaking out of his recollections, Ivan heard the front door as it opened and slammed shut. A moment later, Russia heard the car revved to a start and it peeled out of the driveway. 

Ivan cursed, assuming it was probably Matthew, throwing a fit. It was likely that Trudeau had told him the truth about the death tolls -- and possibly even the length of time Matthew had been recuperating. Oh, well, Ivan believed that those lies were certainly for the best, as Matthew’s health was of the utmost importance. It wouldn’t do if the Canadian suffered too great a shock right away and fell unconscious, into deep stasis, right after waking up. 

Ivan placed his heart carefully in the sink, and without bothering to put on a shirt, he hurried into the hall and out the front door. The gaping, bloody hole in his chest felt strange as it was bared to the moist summer air. His bare feet were chilled against the wet cement. Ivan quite enjoyed chasing after people, it amused him, but less so now because he felt so exposed, and it was Matthew that was running away from him. _ ‘Unfortunate,’ _ he thought. _ ‘The things I do for love.’ _

Ivan broke out into a run, not willing to waste another moment, as Matthew ventured dangerously into the outside world. 

+++++ 

The streets of downtown Ottawa were in chaos. Though they were mostly (and quite eerily) empty, there were obvious remnants that rioters had left behind: knocked over bins, garbage everywhere, shattered glass from shop windows, bent or fallen street signs. Everywhere Matthew looked was slick with rain, broken, or decaying. It was insane how little it took for people to act out of fear and destroy things around them. Matthew couldn’t believe it had only been a month since he had last seen the nation’s capital and it was already falling apart at the seams, like a doll in the hands of a malicious child. 

Matthew, with great unease, hadn’t made it as far as the marketplace before he was stopped by a large group of people loitering in the road. They were impossible to avoid. The massive crowd was undulating like waves seething in a storm. As soon as he pulled up, the disruptive group nearest to Matthew instantly started heckling him. There were at least thirty of them, many already demanding that Matthew get out of his car. 

“A polar bear? Is this some kind of sick joke?” a girl spat at him, her hand curling over the threshold of Matthew’s driver-side window which he, unfortunately, had rolled down to let in the summer breeze. She was peeking her head into his car with apparent irritation. The girl was ruddy looking and had sticky blond hair, covered in sweat as if she hadn’t bothered to shower in days. 

“N-no, he’s my friend. It’s n-not a joke at all.” 

Matthew noted that he could neither drive forward nor back. The people had him surrounded already. The rain had stopped completely, but they were wet-looking, tired and angry. 

“Oh, sure. That’s probably the last one!” an unseen man shouted. Most of the group laughed bitterly. Matthew audibly swallowed his nerves. 

Another man walked up and pushed the first girl aside to get a good look at Matthew -- his head was on an angle, his one eye blown wide, taking him in. The man leaned right into Matthew’s car, close enough that Matthew could feel his hot breath against his cheek. Old and grey, the man was even worse looking than the first girl. He was dressed in a suit but was so disheveled, he looked like he’d been out of work for weeks and was too depressed to change. “Unless you’re here to support us, get the fuck out,” he said authoritatively, after a moment. “We’re marching to Parliament, and the older folks here could use this ride.” 

Matthew suddenly felt like he was going to faint, but willed himself to sound stronger than he felt. “You’re not getting this car,” Canada told him in a small voice, stiffening. “Y-you can’t.” 

At this, many of the people nearest to Matthew starting angrily voicing their dissent. 

A young man leaning on the hood of Matthew’s car was watching quietly. He was seemingly of some importance, as when held up his hand, immediately the others quieted and moved aside. He had a megaphone in one hand and a picket sign clutched in the other, it read: ‘The Apocalypse is Now’. He was extraordinarily skinny, almost emaciated, and had long greasy hair that hung down past his shoulders and a beard that looked like tumble-weed. He stopped to consider Matthew for a moment, and then a savage grin split his face wide. 

“I fucking recognize this guy,” the young man said, growing perversely excited, slapping the hood of the car. “Jesus Christ, he’s Canada!” 

Matthew blanched, fear filling him to the core. Somehow, he got the feeling that if these people recognized him, it wouldn’t end up well. The rough look of this young man, of the rest of the protestors, and of the streets, in general, gave Canada an intense feeling of impending doom. 

“You know, as in our nation personified?” the man added, rolling his eyes, as the others nearest to him seemed momentarily confused. The whole lot of protesters shifted closer to listen in, their picket signs hanging down at their sides, for the moment. 

Matthew felt apprehensive as the leader walked towards the driver-side window. He looked like a wolf on the hunt, though the dreadful smile never wavered from his face. His eyes were lifeless, cold, focused on some bestial intent. As Matthew started raising the window, the leader quickly reached in and clapped his hand on Matthew’s shoulder, leaning in and effectively halting Matthew’s actions. Kumajirous growled at the stranger weakly, to which the man paid no heed. “What an amazing, amazing opportunity,” the other leered, his breath stank like sulfur. 

Turning away from a trembling Matthew, the leader suddenly took up his megaphone, climbing on top of the hood of Matthew’s car. “Everyone! It’s time we take our nation into our own hands,” he shouted to all the protesters, who were listening intently. He smirked maliciously, saying: “And I mean that very literally.” 

Matthew felt his unease turn to terror in an instant. The leader, glaring down at him with an evil look in his eyes, suddenly hollered, “Grab him!” 

Matthew’s eyes darted around, judging how he could escape. The protestors were already encircling him rapidly, and his options were dissipating fast. In a split-second decision, Matthew looked to Kumajirou and told him sternly under his breath: “Hide now. And don’t you come out, no matter what.” 

Kumajirou didn’t seem to understand -- perhaps he didn’t want to abandon Canada -- so Matthew gave him a hard slap on the bottom and a sharp word, “Now!” which sent the bear scurrying into the back seat with a yelp. 

Before Matthew could do anything more, a hulking man came up to him and bunched up Matthew’s shirt collar in his fist, lifting him partially out of his seat. Matthew tried to struggle, but in response, the man grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. 

“Don’t you dare hesitate now,” the leader shouted into his megaphone, presumedly to those who were ambivalent, or frightened, bystanders. All Matthew could see were hungry, angry faces surrounding him. “This isn’t a fucking human, it doesn’t deserve your pity! This thing represents all the failures of our government to provide for us and protect us. He is the land that reared up to murder us. We take him apart, we dismantle the system! The strength, the resolve of our people, will rise from the ashes and create a better world!”

At these words, the disgruntled protesters made a turn for the worse. Their doubts were dealt with easily, their passion kindled and rapidly enflamed to outright violence. Bloodlust was clear in their harrowing, grimacing faces. Canada was struggling for breath, but when the pressure relented, he didn’t have a moment to breathe before the massive man hauled him out of the car through the window. Matthew was thrown into the crowd but fell on cold, hard cement. 

Instantly, ten pairs of hands were on him, pulling him in five different directions. More hands immediately followed -- soon, what seemed like a hundred people grabbed, tore, and cut at Matthew’s body with long, knife-like nails. Tearing off shreds of his clothes and skin, each protestor seemed to want a pound of Matthew’s flesh. Canada tried to fight them off, but being so overwhelmingly overpowered, he began shrieking for help. An army of people, his own people, had descended upon him to rip him apart. Punches and kicks landed all over his body, excruciatingly painful, but the terror and despair of his circumstances felt like daggers in his heart. Matthew had his face to the cold cement, trying in vain to crawl away, and screamed in agony when he knew help wouldn’t arrive. This marked the moment when Matthew, and his nation as a whole, had fallen hard to rock-bottom -- dark, jagged, and agonizing. 

They tore at him, spilled his blood, to avenge the blood that had been spilled everywhere else in the country. They were as fierce and as merciless as Mother Nature had been upon them. 

After what felt like an eternity, Matthew heard a different kind of shouting and scuffling from above. He could barely focus beyond the pain that was being inflicted upon him, but a small part of his brain told him to listen closely. Ever so slightly, the blows which repeatedly struck Matthew seemed to lessen in intensity. There was another sound, like ferocious growling, that became prevalent. The whimpers and frightened cries of the protesters became clear as bells, and blood other than Matthew’s own seemed to splatter the concrete next to his face. Matthew could hardly see through his bruised, swollen eyes, but the crowd parted around him considerably and he peeked through them with slitted gaze to see what was going on. 

There, mere feet from where he lay, Ivan and Kumajirou were breaking up the crowd. Both had their teeth bared and were roaring like wild animals. The small polar bear made wicked use of his claws and powerful jaws, Russia his impressive fists and kicks, until the crowd grew frightened and beaten enough to back off considerably. At the first opportunity, Kumajirou rushed to Mathew’s prone figure and began lapping up the wounds on his face, his hands, and neck -- every bit of Canada that was exposed and bleeding to the air. 

The protesters had all but scattered when the leader stepped out of the fray. He held a pistol in his trembling grip, aiming it at a blood-covered and disheveled Ivan. “What the fuck are you?” he screamed, his eyes as wide as two plates. 

Ivan grinned savagely, baring all his teeth -- his lip split, one eye blackened, his fists swollen and covered in blood. Russia’s mind was seemingly entirely unraveled. There was something in his eyes that betrayed Ivan’s insanity, a kind of euphoric giddiness, spurred on by violence. Mathew felt he would pass out, but willed himself with all his remaining strength to remain conscious and see how the event unfolded. Russia was half-naked, his neck wrapped in bandages, his bare chest exposed to the summer air. There was a gaping, bloody hole in his ivory breast where his heart should be. Horrifyingly, Matthew could see through the open wound. The leader was right -- Ivan looked like something beyond human, beyond nation, something monstrous from a nightmare. 

“I’m a friend,” Russia replied coolly. “But not to you.” 

The leader, shaking in his boots, pulled the trigger without thinking. His fear blinded him, made him commit another senseless act of violence. Almost all of the other protesters had already abandoned him, running, and it made him desperate. The bullet, deafening as a lightning clap, seemed to strike Ivan, but the monster didn’t even hesitate -- Russia lunged at the leader and seized him in a powerful grip. Throwing the man face-first to the ground, Russia put his barefoot between his shoulder blades and grabbed his arms, brutally yanking them back, dislocating the bones with an audible crack. Ivan had a bestial look on his face, evidently relishing every moment. The pistol fell out of the victim’s grip as he howled out in agony. After a minute of wailing, a handful of protesters who remained staring at the scene in shock, the leader passed out cold. 

“K-Kuma,” Matthew whispered. The polar bear nuzzled his snout under Canada’s arm, trying to make Matthew get up. Matthew was too stunned to respond to the effort. 

“Alright?” Kuma asked him. 

Before Matthew could attempt a reply, Ivan stalked up to them and kneeled next to Matthew, staring at him with a serious look on his face. Matthew was lying on his stomach, his face turned to his saviours, but he couldn’t move a muscle. He looked like a bloodied pulp, a mass of torn and aching flesh, not a man. 

“I’m going to pick you up now,” Ivan said, matter-of-factly. His face was black and blue.

“W-what about your bullet wound?” Matthew croaked out. He didn’t want to be touched by Russia. He wished Ivan didn’t save him at all. He should have died. 

Ivan giggled unexpectedly and entirely inappropriately. “It went right through me!” He gestured to the hole in his chest. Nonetheless, there was blood smeared all over him, probably not all his own. Matthew couldn’t stop staring through the tunnel in Ivan’s breast into a kind of middle-distance, feeling numb, his mind and body horrendously pained and drained of any will to live. 

Without waiting for Matthew to say anything, Ivan took a gentle hold of him and lifted him in his arms, cradling Canada like a baby to his chest. He began making a slow walk back to Matthew’s car, Kumajirou following close behind. “You are having bad luck, Matvey.” 

Matthew scoffed, wincing at every bump in Ivan’s gait. Despite himself, he rested his head in the crook of Ivan’s neck -- he was too bruised, beaten, and broken to care. “I don’t believe in chance,” Matthew murmured. “Fate is trying to destroy me.” 

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” 

_ ‘But you are the bad thing, Russia!’ _ Matthew thought, scornfully. Canada hated the man with all his heart, and especially despised him for saving his life when all he wanted to do was die. But, instead, Canada cruelly said, “You already have let bad things happen to me.” 

Hearing this, Ivan instinctively clutched Matthew tighter to his chest. Matthew yelped in pain, and disgustingly, he felt his elbow poke slightly through the hole in Ivan’s breast. Ivan immediately loosened the pressure, grimacing. 

“Sorry,” Russia hastened. “But, if I can help it, I won’t let you get hurt ever again! I promise, Matvey.” 

Matthew closed his eyes, feeling tired. “Okay.” 

With all the care in the world, Ivan placed Matthew into the passenger side. 

“Why don’t you have a heart?” Matthew asked, once Ivan had gotten into the driver’s seat. 

“I have one,” Ivan replied, chuckling, starting the car. “It’s in the sink back at your house.” 

“Oh.” 

Kumajirou lapped at his bloody paws in the back seat, and Matthew listened to the sound as his thoughts drifted into a haze, staring blankly out the passenger side window at the wreckage that had become his reality.


	5. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please direct your eyes to the "temporary character death" tag. Also, forgive me. 
> 
> I am posting two slightly shorter chapters to make up for my little hiatus (this is an edit, it was originally three). At first, they made up one tremendously long chapter, but I thought it would be better to divide them up. I will try to keep updates bi-weekly, at the latest. 
> 
> Also, just as a note, AmeCan is not a legitimate ship in this fic, it is only one-sided and will soon fall to the wayside and die :)

** One month ago **

Alfred was sitting at the bar in the Toronto airport, resting his weary head on his fist and treating himself to his sixth glass of rum and coke in an hour and a half. He was idly watching baseball one of the large televisions, a re-run of a blue jays game, just entertaining enough to keep him from losing his mind to boredom. God, even though he was getting a strong buzz on, the American felt terrible. Truly, like he had been run over by a bus. He was waiting to catch a layover flight from Toronto to Ottawa to see his twin brother. A rare and impulsive visit, but his sour mood and impatience made him regret every decision that led to this moment. 

Alfred’s flight was delayed for another couple hours, at least, but the storm outside only seemed to be increasing in ferocity. The thunder clouds brewed like the dark, bubbling ichor in a witches cauldron, promising some wicked end. Inside the airport, by contrast, everything was sleek and sterile, lit with overpowering fluorescent light. As far as the eye could see, the airport was almost entirely emptied of people but for a few unfortunates like Alfred milling about as the night approached the hushed midnight hours. The last thing Alfred wanted to do was waste more time in this strange, alien purgatory. He wished he was with Matthew already. His brother’s presence was soothing like a crisp, cool wind. 

Regularly, the happy American would have chatted up anyone who was sitting near him, but Alfred was just not in the mood to talk. He brushed off the lonely business woman who came up to flirt with him, ignored the questions of the middle-aged man who was equally as bored as him, and snapped irritably at the outgoing couple that wanted to chat him up to pass the time. For once, despite himself, Alfred knew he needed to take a moment to think and sort himself out. Not his forte, but certainly he could manage it just this once. By now, everyone had left the pissy American to his own devices. It was just him and the bartender in a forsaken, deserted realm. 

Alfred sighed, running a hand over his weary eyes. The flow of time now felt as still and stagnant as a shallow stream. He was a rock half submerged in the river, weathered by age and growing dense with moss. He felt his age more in this moment than he had in his entire extended life time. 

Alfred was so impetuous, eternally young in both body and soul; usually he just let his whims steer him left and right like a rudderless ship. But something else had been stirring under the surface of late, like a wriggling fish. And each time he attempted to reach in and take a hold of it, the thought slipped stubbornly out of his grasp. 

Actively, sitting at a bar in the Toronto airport, Alfred began an exploration of the confines of his own mind. It was hard, his inner life had been suppressed into silence for so long, sunken under the weight of so many years of hardships. Did he even truly know himself, or what went on beneath the shallow, glossy surface of his feelings? Usually when he thought about himself, he got distracted by the happy face which reflected off the clear, crystalline waters of his mind. Satisfied, he never delved further into that which had never been touched by the light of day -- the inky black depths beneath. What evils lurked down there? 

Such existential, miserable thoughts went starkly against Alfred’s nature. 

In fact, the usually happy American had not felt like himself in months. 

It seemed like a stranger had hopped into his bones and paraded him around like a silly mascot for the world to see. Alfred grinned, he made outrageous jokes, he laughed like an idiot and pretended to enjoy each stupid endeavour he pursued for the sake of appearances. No one, not anyone, could know how deeply Alfred was hurting. Even so, he knew in his heart that everything he did had somehow become empty and vain, but he could not fathom why. What had changed? 

_ You idiot, _ Alfred thought, _ you know exactly what’s changed. You just don’t wanna admit it to yourself. What are you here for? _

_ “Remember the pain between your legs next time you think I’m pretty enough to play with,” _ his brother's voice had sounded out uncharacteristically loud, heard even through the wood of the door. 

The words echoed off the walls of Alfred’s cave-like mind, filling the vast expanse, emptied by grief. He was suddenly thrown into the unwelcome memory which swallowed him like so much darkness. 

_ Matthew stormed out furiously, knocking Alfred from his position crouched against the door and sending him sprawling across the floor. His brother’s face was alight with rage, burning such a pretty shade of crimson down to his neck. His eyes were cold and hard as amethysts, sparkling in the light, glaring down at Alfred peevishly. His suit was disheveled from where Ivan had grabbed him, but Alfred ignored the feelings of jealousy and indignation that filled him at the sight. Instead, he stared up at the Canadian in awe. Who knew that Matthew was such a firecracker? _

_ His angry feelings were quickly replaced by a sense of wonder and love. Love, but not the familial kind that had blossomed between them for centuries. It was a desire to protect, to discover what was beneath, to unfurl all the unexpected silken treasures that Matthew had buried deep within him. _

_ But that feeling was unacceptable between them. He knew Matthew could never accept him as more than his silly twin brother. So Alfred gaped at him, praising him. Secretly his heart had swallowed his love and digested it as rot, which corroded all the happiness in him until he felt that he was a hollow shell. In that moment, having to recognize his terrible passion, Alfred went from alive to barely living. _

Alfred polished off his drink in one gulp, and the bartender, perhaps reading the sadness in his eyes, hastened to pour him another one. Alfred, without looking, felt the bartender sizing him up with sharp eyes. 

“You’re too young to look so old,” the man said frankly. 

“Excuse you,” Alfred hissed, snapping his head up. 

The bartender had the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. He was a young man with jet black hair cropped close to his skull and a fresh, oval face. His eyes glimmered with intelligence as he gazed smugly at Alfred. The bartender’s physique made him seem much younger than what was probably his age; one needed to be at least nineteen to serve drinks in Ontario, but he was short and thin and looked barely over the age of seventeen. Then again, Alfred knew it was true that he looked like a teenager himself, but with eyes as old and sad as the earth itself. 

“What’s got you so down?” the other asked, polishing a glass. 

Alfred chucked derisively. He was not interested in participating in the share-your-woes with the bartender trope. The man obviously sensed Alfred’s disinterest and made a move to walk away, sighing. Alfred, for some reason, felt his heart leap to his throat. 

“I’m here to see a guy,” Alfred said, suddenly. He was shocked at the words which sprung unwittingly out of his mouth. But the flood of words just kept coming. “I’m nervous. He doesn’t know I’m coming.” 

The bartender raised a quizzical brow, though not judgmentally. He said nothing but his eyes spoke volumes. _ ‘Oh? Go on,’ _ they seemed to say. 

“Yeah. I don’t know why but, well, I’ve been feeling really sick lately,” Alfred admitted, quietly. He was getting sicker by the day, though he had never spoken it aloud to anyone before. Storms like the one outside had been cropping up all over America. Climate change seemed to nip at his heels like an angry dog, everywhere he went. “That kind of thing puts things into perspective, you know? What’s important seems to stick out from the fray. And I kinda realized something. The last time I saw him, I just didn’t want him to go away. He means the world to me.” 

“That’s a lucky guy,” the bartender said, half-smiling. 

“No, actually, we’re both really unlucky,” Alfred sighed. “He doesn’t see me in that way. I’m like… a brother. We’ve had a long history together. If I admit it to him, it will only cause him pain.” 

“What about your pain?” 

“My pain?” Alfred asked, confused. 

“Yeah, your pain. If you are both so close, have you ever stopped to think about how it’ll make him feel if he sees you’re hurting like this?” 

“Well, no.” Alfred hung his head down. Though he thought he was not in the mood to talk, he could not help but spill out his bleeding heart to a complete stranger. What would happen if he saw Matthew? Could he keep these new and overwhelming feelings to himself? _ ‘Unlikely,’ _ Alfred thought miserably. He had never been able to keep his mouth shut for long. But then again, if he did succeed in keeping quiet, Matthew would certainly sense the pain that wrenched his heart like a knife in a wound. His brother would go mad with guilt if he thought Alfred was suffering and would not confide in him. The American couldn’t bear to see tears well in those violet eyes, which as of late seemed to be so much deeper than he had ever imagined. 

“It would probably crush him,” the bartender told him. “When two people love each other, it doesn’t matter what barriers you have to overcome as long as you do it together. If you keep it all inside it’s bound to explode out of you in a much uglier way eventually. Besides, if you tell him the truth now, who knows, you might be pleasantly surprised.” 

Alfred glanced up at the other, his eyes wide. The bartender winked down at Alfred’s flushed face before promptly hustling off to attend to another customer sitting down at the other end of the bar. 

Swallowing the ball in his throat, Alfred called out to him as he departed. “Hey, you’re pretty wise, little guy!” 

Alfred could hear the bartender scoff. Though his back was turned, Alfred could have sworn the man rolled his eyes. 

“And you’re more than a little depressing, old man,” the bartender quipped. “Who knows how long we all have left, so if you can’t be happy, at least you can say that you tried.” 

Alfred smiled, genuinely. He felt a whole lot better, like a crushing weight had been lifted off his chest. 

+++++

Many hours passed in this fashion. 

Alfred downed drink after drink, his complexion turning a deep shade of scarlet, like a poppie, as the night progressed into early morning. His lips blubbered out dirty little secrets to an amused, witty bartender. He confessed his love for the soft, gentle Matthew, who also had a surprisingly passionate and sexy streak, a hundred times over. Alfred had discovered his friend's name was James. He loved James. James tolerated him. 

“I should probably cut you off,” said James. “You’re pretty much melting over the bar stool, a hot mess.” 

Alfred was, indeed, inexorably slipping sideways off the edge of his seat. He scoffed at this suggestion. “Wow, James. Big words from a such shrimpy guy,” Alfred said drunkenly, jokingly, and stuck out his tongue. “W-wait, did you just call me hot?” 

The bartender looked surprised for a moment, then laughed. “You look like somebody murdered you a week ago.” 

Alfred blinked. “Well you’re stuck with this bloated corpse until my plane finally decides to take off. And I gotta deal with your snark.” 

“Your plane? Have you seen outside?” James asked him, incredulous. 

Alfred squinted and peered into the darkness outside the massive windows behind the bar, leaning so far forward his shirt wiped the sticky surface of the counter. 

“Oh, fuck,” Alfred whispered, hiccuping into his hand. 

He couldn’t even see the runways anymore, every light was swallowed up by the fierceness of the storm. It was the kind of storm you feel in your chest. The rain slammed against the windows incessantly, periodically picking up strength with great gusts of wind, as if hurled down furiously by the strong hand of a weather god. Bolts of lightning clapped nearby at a rapid rate, lighting up the sky, the angry face of nature; it’s voice spoke in deep, troubled rumbles of thunder. As if it the storm had waited for Alfred to take notice, it increased in intensity, and the lights in the airport started to flicker in and out. 

“Is this safe?” Alfred asked, scrunching up his face. 

“I don’t think so,” James said, honestly. “It’s been getting worse and worse. It’s almost five, anyway. I’m going to close up.” 

“Don’t leave me,” Alfred whined. “Like you said, we can die at anytime. Might as well try to make me happy!” 

“No, I said you should try to make _ yourself _ happy.” James rolled his eyes, but could not help but smile at Alfred’s silliness. “Likewise, I want to make me happy. And that means going home before this gets any worse.” 

“What about my nightcap?” Alfred demanded, pouting. He was red and shining as a ruby. 

“I’m not murdering you with alcohol poisoning.” 

Alfred groaned, looking away from James and out the windows once more. 

“Wait, what are those dots?” Alfred asked, squinting into the black violence outside. There were several coloured dots floating in the distance and rapidly approaching. Both ends on each side of the dots were illuminated by a harsh orange light. “That’s gotta be a UFO!” Alfred shouted excitedly. 

James frowned, doubt etched in his face, and turned around. Almost immediately, Alfred saw his friend’s shoulders begin to quake. He heard James’ breath exhaled sharply through his nose, faltering, as he struggled to stammer out words. “But, t-that’s impossible!” 

“Man, trust me, UFO’s are real!” Alfred told him, slurring. 

“N-no, that’s a plane. It shouldn’t be landing in this weather, it must be an emergency. Christ, it looks like it’s on fire!” 

It took several moments for Alfred to process his words. Instinctively, he knew it was going to crash, and he needed to be there to help. Even completely inebriated, he could be of service; his strength was unmatched. More lightning struck the earth, and the airport’s lights were finally snuffed out, replaced by red emergency lighting that cast everything in a shadowy, sickly hue. Personnel began swarming the long, wide corridor. People on layover like Alfred appeared from every darkened crevice to see what was going on. 

James processed the situation slowly, methodically; his mind was muddled over minute details. “If a plane was going to crash land, we would have been notified. Their communications must’ve been compromised by the bad weather. But one lightning strike couldn’t have busted the engines. Maybe several on the wingtips? I just don’t get it. Our planes are routinely checked for possible malfunctions. It must’ve been the storm!” 

“You gotta get outta here,” Alfred told him seriously. 

“No, it’s not going to crash into us. The length of the runways are designed to prevent that.” 

It was so close now, they could see the twin fires on either end, like blazing torches in a dark and wet cave. It was coming in to land far, far too quickly. The torches turned to bonfires, black smoke rising hotly, swallowed by the dark, yawning mouth of the heavens. Alfred could have sworn he heard the screams, the squealing of the wheels, as the plane bounced hard on landing and burst into flames. The wheels were the last to be consumed, and like a bullet, the plane shot forward towards them.

Struck dumb, James’ eyes were glued to the airplane, unable to tear his gaze away, like a man stares in horror at a train wreck barreling towards him. This was the last time Alfred would see the young man’s face. Horribly, in the instant they both knew that the plane would inevitably strike them, another disaster descended upon them like the lash of the devil’s cruel whip. 

The ground shook beneath two, a terrible, violent tremor that rattled the teeth in their skulls and sent Alfred tumbling to the floor. The noise was deafening. In some part of his mind, Alfred was aware that the plane had slid into the airport -- the impact felt as if he had crashed to earth from the thunderous sky above. The world had erupted into fire and was heavy with the scent of brimstone. The heat of the inferno consumed everything around Alfred almost instantaneously, and the flames licked his body like demon tongues, melting the flesh off his bones. His subconscious also realized, through blind, agonizing pain, that an earthquake had decided to strike at almost the exact same moment. He had never heard of a disaster of such epic proportion in all his years, much less had he been victim to it. The ground cracked in several spaces and gaped open like mouths into hell, swallowing the burning debris. The building, unable to take the strain, crumbled around them like cookies burnt too hot from the oven. 

Alfred, in his panic, suffered glimpses of previous wars which flashed through his head like a gruesome picture show. _ I have to get to my men! _ his soul cried to the angry void. _ God, they’re all dead. They’re all dead! _ His terrified mind transported him in time with visions of dense jungles, the melodies of insects and birds drowned out, the land now alive with the sound of machine gun fire, far-away explosions, and helicopters; wide open plains piled with rotting corpses and reeking of death; trenches sunken deep with noxious gas and men scrambling over one another like poisoned ants. He felt the limbs in his body go limp with fear and pain. His mouth, filled with blood, opened wide to a horrified scream but no sound escaped him. 

When everything settled, Alfred knew that he was crushed beneath the immense weight of a building. He could see nothing but darkness. His mashed body, with all the strength of his great nation, clung desperately to life. But it was hopeless, what was left of his insides spread about him like ground beef. He was alive only for a short while, then his soul slipped out his ruined flesh like a sigh. His last thought was of Matthew -- was his brother okay? Was this the end of the world? 

The world had ended so many times for Alfred. But only once for those dead soldiers, his men in arms, who left mothers, wives, and children weeping and desolate at home.


	6. Kitchen Shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel compelled to remind you guys that this will be an eventual happy ending. The whole situation with Alfred will be resolved in the next chapter, coming soon. 
> 
> Also, Matthew and Ivan won't be such dicks at some point in the future, probably. 
> 
> There's a little Macbeth reference tucked away in here somewhere. Gotta pay homage to the greatest and gayest tragedy writer, amirite? 
> 
> Let me know what you guys think!

As the minutes ebbed by, Matthew felt his stomach twists in painful, angry knots. He was just so frustrated, so confused, so hurt in every conceivable way. Never in all of his long history had his people turned on him so personally and mercilessly. Matthew was sure that they wanted to kill him and again he thought that maybe he should have let them.

Matthew watched the streets pass through the car window in sullen silence; they were wracked in ruin, a testament to the state of the world he now lived in. The destruction outside was the external image of the people’s hatred for him and the disarray and cold indifference of the universe as a whole. Matthew felt, in some way, like he deserved this cruel fate. 

He had abandoned his people for a full month as storms, floods, and other natural disasters plagued them like an apocalypse. Matthew half expected a great scarlet beast to rise from the pits of Hell and consume the world entirely along with every innocent soul therein. 

Though, Matthew was starting to suspect that the number of innocent souls was wearing thin, like butter spread across too much toast. 

It didn’t take much, less deaths than Matthew had seen in the scope of his lifetime, to send his people spiraling over the edge. Instinctively, Matthew knew that most nations recoiled from Canada’s suffering in dismay, rushing to keep their own people safe and sheltered from this disaster. They all acted as if it were a contagious disease, Matthew was sure, except for his close family… and Ivan. 

Maybe the end of the world wouldn’t be such a bad thing. 

At the very least, Ivan wisely kept his mouth shut the short drive home so Matthew could brood in silence. His dark thoughts pervaded his brain like the stench of rot between two peeling walls. His shock had now faded to utter despair in the face of his circumstances. 

Ivan gripped the steering wheel tightly, apparently battling his own thoughts. Multiple times he looked as though he wanted to say something and then thought better of it. Matthew glanced away from him, not liking it when his eyes rested too long on the other’s face, not anymore. All Matthew wanted to do was focus on the pain; it was the only thing that made him feel alive right now. It grounded him firmly in the present, promising that he would not slip away into that shadowy purgatory once more and become utterly useless for another month. 

When they arrived at Matthew’s house, Ivan carefully carried Matthew from the car and up the front steps. His bare skin was incredibly warm against Matthew's own, almost a soothing balm to his torn flesh. Kumajirou trotted behind them, frequently glancing up at Matthew with a blank expression. Matthew, however, could discern that his polar bear was worried about him. 

He just wanted to disappear with Kumajiriou under a hundred blankets and hibernate until the world regained its natural order. He wanted things to be how they used to be before Ivan appeared and all this madness started; to erase all the pain and lies and senseless deaths. He still couldn't wrap his head around all that had transpired in the short time since he had woken up. It was as if it had all been dragged out of the guts of his worst nightmares. Matthew hadn’t realized it yet, but his breaths got shorter and shorter as they entered the house, and it didn’t take him long to start hyperventilating. 

They entered the dark house, Ivan switching on a few lights as they passed. He placed Matthew delicately in the kitchen chair, muttering, “You are safe now. Breathe.” 

Matthew grumbled unintelligibly, clenching his fists painfully tight in his lap. His chest rose and fell at an alarmingly rapid rate. He trembled like a leaf in the wind, drained of all colour. A feeling of impending doom possessed him as if his life was still in the claws of those murderous strangers and he was staring into the black maw of death. 

The more he succumbed to the tightening feeling in his chest, like a vice, the more he panicked. Matthew’s eyes were impossibly wide, his irises small and shuddering, all the whites of his eyes made visible. His mouth was agape like a fish as he struggled for the air that refused to fill his lungs. 

Ivan was getting seriously concerned. He tried not to let it show, lest he frighten the poor man anymore than he already had been. He offered a small smile, which scrunched up his eyes pleasantly. “Take your time to find your breath. I know it’s hard and it hurts,” he said softly. 

Matthew tried to follow his advice and take a deep breath to steady his heart. He couldn’t seem to calm himself, and this realization had the opposite of the intended effect. Oxygen escaped him entirely and his pulse nearly tripled its frantic speed. His heart seemed to be soaked heavy, wine-dark as the sea, polluted by pain and rocked by violent gales. His head spun wildly like he was drunk. He looked up at Ivan’s steady mauve gaze -- though one of his eyes was swollen black, Matthew used them as a grounding point to try to slow his racing heart and calm his erratic breathing. 

“That’s it, Matvey," Ivan grinned, the light of gaiety not reaching his eyes, “air will come, trust me. Slow down.” 

“J-just,” Matthew gasped, shutting his eyes, “leave me a-alone.” 

Matthew hunched over the table, where his pancakes still waited cold, his breath coming in at long last but in sobbing, overwhelming gulps. His heart seemed to want to burst out of his breast, like Ivan’s had so gruesomely. Clutching his chest at the thought, Matthew fearfully glanced up at Ivan again, who was leaning over him, very concerned. Matthew’s eyes darted over the other’s half-dressed form, his blood-soaked skin, the swollen flesh that marked wounds and bruises here and there, that desolate hole where his heart should be. 

Matthew gasped, shuddering, “G-God! Get away!” 

Ivan’s eyes widened, he took a step back, surprised. “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m sick of all the blood!” Matthew’s voice trembled terribly, rising and falling in volume, his broken heart echoing in his tone, “I can’t take it. You’re drenched in it. I’m utterly stained. How will I get rid of these damned spots?” 

“M-Mat--” 

“No!” Matthew’s wheezing breaths rattled off the walls. He felt responsible. All of the suffering, all of the bloodshed, seemed to be resting squarely on his shoulders like the weight of the world. He couldn’t bare to look at the blood anymore. He clutched his head between his hands, yanking out his hair in grief and guilt, trying to stop his panic with blind pain. 

Ivan lunged forward and gripped Matthew’s hands firmly, but ever-so-gently did he pull them away from Matthew’s head, because Matthew suddenly lacked the strength to resist. “Stop this now, Matvey.” 

The commanding tone, the warm touch, did something to derail Matthew’s terrible train of thoughts. Those simple things seemed to ravish Matthew, sending thrills through him, distracting him for a moment. His breaths still came in hiccups, but Matthew’s shaking had slowed, and he looked up and focused on Ivan’s intent face once more. 

“I won’t hold you like this if I frighten you,” Ivan said softly, though his finger stroked the back of Matthew’s cold, ivory hand almost tenderly, “I know when I feel so afraid, so condemned, I need my loneliness to comfort me.” 

With that, Ivan let him go. Matthew watched him, his breathing slowing ever so slightly, but still laboured and soaked heavy with pain. The Canadian couldn't bring himself to form any more words. 

Ivan bowed his head, suddenly sheepish. “I did get you groceries earlier. I’ll go fetch them from the trunk,” he said and turned on his heels, walking out the front door almost comically quickly. 

As soon as he was alone, Matthew’s hands went back to his hair, running through the tangled, matted mess of curls as best as he could. He was no longer ripping them from the nerves, but stroking the strands slowly, attempting to reign in his madness with soft, self-loving touches. “It’s okay, Mattie,” he told himself, hiccuping and teary-eyed, “you’re okay.” 

Now that his panic had started to subside, the physical pain came back to him twice-fold, enveloping his aching body in its thorny embrace. He looked down at himself; he was covered in blood, bruises, and gashes. His clothes were ruined, torn in too many places to mend. He started soothing himself methodically in his brain. _ These clothes are ruined anyway, _ he thought to himself, _ the same shorts and ratty t-shirt I have been wearing for a month. _

He realized that he did indeed stink terribly, the sickly-sweet stench of sweat and the metallic, iron smell blood. His face, he remembered from his unfortunate encounter with the mirror in his bedroom, took on the angular shadows of one who was once beautiful but stopped caring for his appearance. He would wash himself, he would brush his hair, clean his wounds. Then maybe things would get marginally better. 

He let his thoughts drift off to more pleasant times in past summers, when his hair shone as brightly as sunlight; his skin was alabaster and soaked up the summer rays as gratefully as a dehydrated man gulped down water. Those times when the supple skin beneath his eyes wasn't pressed with purple galaxies. His bones and muscles were healthy and energetic, spry as a rabbit, instead of tenuously roped about the wounded creature he was now, one caught in a snare. When he laughed in his quiet and gentle way, tentative and shy, instead of screaming out his pain like an animal. 

“Eat this,” Ivan ordered, putting a can of peaches and a spoon in front of Matthew. 

Matthew startled. He didn’t even realize the other had come back in. Matthew wondered at how deeply he had retreated inside himself, lost in thought. His eyes had dried completely by the time Ivan woke him from his reverie. 

A dozen grocery bags were piled on top of the kitchen counter. It was amazing that he had managed to scavenge so much food when the world outside was in such disarray. Though, Matthew shook himself, it was his bad luck to run into a group of angry protesters. There had to be some semblance of civilized life out there, he had just stumbled across a pack of hungry wolves, acting as weak and stupid as a lost, little lamb. 

“Thanks,” Matthew said, meekly, “but I’m not hungry anymore. If you have fish, give it to Kuma.” 

When Ivan gave him a dark look, apparently displeased with being ordered around, Matthew hastily added, “Sorry, if you don’t mind. Lettuce and root vegetables work too.” 

“I’m not concerned about that creature right now,” Ivan said, pushing the can towards Matthew, his eyes narrowing as he scowled at the Canadian, “eat it now or you’re going to pass out. And I’m not washing you for another month.” 

Matthew had the good grace to look embarrassed. He took up the spoon gingerly with shaking fingers. His stomach had shrunk so much that he had lost all of his appetite. His insides had feasted on themselves with vigour until he felt like a hollow shell with no will to fill himself. However, he found that once his tongue tasted the sugary fruit, he couldn’t get enough of it. He began spooning the peaches into his mouth with earnest, a few at a time, even scooping up the sweet juice and drinking it. It eased the painful pangs in his stomach a bit. 

“But seriously,” Matthew said, in a brief pause between mouthfuls, his mouth dribbling ever so slightly at the sides with the delicious juice, “find something for Kiroujira, please.” 

“You don’t even know his name,” Ivan said as he started putting away the groceries in all the wrong cabinets. Matthew liked to be organized, but he didn’t say anything to correct him. “Why do you care? Bears can go several months without eating.” 

“He’s not a regular polar bear!” Matthew rushed to defend his friend, who had sidled up from wherever place he was hiding at the mention of food, splaying himself across Matthew’s feet with a sigh, “and I know we forget each other’s names sometimes, but we’ve been together for as long as I can remember. When I’m hurting badly, he is too. He deserves a good meal.” 

“Hungry,” Kumajirou asserted from beneath the table. 

“Fine,” Ivan grumbled, rifling through a bag and pulling out several carrots. He tossed them to the floor carelessly. Matthew was focused on scraping up the juice from the now empty can, but glanced down at the discarded carrots and back up to gape at Ivan. 

“You’re not going to wash them?” 

“No.” 

“Well, he doesn’t eat them unless they’re properly cleaned.” 

Kumajirou ambled over to sniff the vegetables and curled up his lip distastefully, huffing out air from his snout. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“No, but it’s fine,” Matthew sighed, “I’ll do it myself.” 

He started to get up hesitantly, every bone in his body protesting the movement, but Ivan crossed the kitchen in two long strides and shoved him back down.

“Sit down before you fall down,” he growled. 

Matthew looked up at him with violet eyes blown wide, and if Ivan didn't know any better, slightly imploring. 

“Whatever,” Ivan huffed, quickly giving in and picking up the carrots from the kitchen floor, “either I’m going to get carrot juice all over my heart, or you counter is gonna get bloody. Which is it?” 

Matthew swallowed his chuckle, not daring to voice it when Ivan was in such a bad mood. It seemed fitting that one of them was always sour while the other was practically jovial. Either that, or they were both at each other’s throats. 

“You can put it on the counter. Why is it there anyway and not, uhm, in your body?” 

Ivan turned to hide his blush, placing the carrots on the counter of one side of the sink and then his heart carefully on the other, turning on the tap. “Well, sometimes it just falls out on its own. It’s been that way forever,” he said, washing the blood from his hands and from underneath his nails. 

Matthew hummed, his curiosity slightly piqued, “Why?” 

“You have a polar bear, I have a wandering heart. I guess some things are just the way they are,” he said gruffly, and now that he was set on doing it, Ivan cleaned the carrots thoroughly, scrubbing them with his hands, “they are both extensions of ourselves, I suppose.” 

_ Though your little friend alleviates your loneliness and my heart is merely an externalization of the feeling, _ Ivan thought to himself miserably. 

“If that’s you expressing yourself no wonder it’s so off-putting,” Matthew quipped. 

Again, Ivan threw the now-clean carrots to the floor, visibly peeved. “And your little _self-expression,_" he shot back vehemently, pointing a crude finger at Kumajirou, who merely munched away happily on his meal, "stinks like dead fish and looks like a clump of grandma’s hair at the bottom of the drain!” 

“Woah,” Matthew said, holding up his hands, “better stick that thing back in there before it shrivels up some more.” 

Ivan’s glare softened suddenly, ever so slightly, and he actually smiled a little despite himself. His laughter bubbled up inside him but he forced it down. He wouldn’t give the Canadian the satisfaction of earning his laughter. Really, one moment Matthew was falling apart, and the next he was cracking stupid little jokes? He infuriated Ivan endlessly; frankly, he made no sense. 

“I’m working on it,” Ivan offered brusquely. He tossed Matthew another can of peaches and then the can opener, both of which Matthew caught, but only barely and with groans of acute distress. 

Ivan went back to cleaning out his heart of all the remaining shards. Matthew sighed happily and ate more peaches, the suffering that clenched his heart easing with the feeling of a full belly and the petty satisfaction that comes from making a jab at Ivan.

+++++

It didn't take long for the brief lull of peace to erupt into outright warfare between the two. The tension was so high in the kitchen you could have cut into it with a knife and watched it bleed. 

“Matvey, stop being a child!” Ivan scolded. He had had it up to his ears with Matthew’s stubbornness. The wet, bloody rag he had clutched in his hand, used to clean Matthew’s cuts, hovered between them. Matthew had slapped his hand away, and both faces were supremely irritated and flushed. His heart was safely returned to his chest, the skin sealed, and yet already the excitable organ threw itself repeatedly against his rib cage, like an angry pet too wild to be confined. 

“You’re one to talk!” Matthew responded hotly, “you’re like an obscene man-baby playing with his little doll. I’m sick of you nursing me.” 

“You’re rude for a Canadian. I just saved your life, you little brat.” 

Ivan looked more angry than Matthew had ever seen him. His scowl was so deeply embedded in his face, his eyes so dark and menacing, it looked like his expression could not possibly be wiped clean of evil ever again. That was fine by Matthew, he actually preferred seeing all of Ivan’s wickedness bared for the world to see instead up hidden beneath a thin veil of kindness. 

Matthew crossed his arms, hissing in pain and rage, his eyes so seething and hateful they rivaled Ivan’s own malevolent gaze. Matthew had not forgotten his pledge to ruin the man with the pretense of love, but he felt a burning resentment so powerful that he could not help but let it spew from him like acid. He cursed Ivan for saving him, for caring for him, for doing all this in the shadow of his lies. Matthew wanted to hurt Ivan deeply, but when tensions were so high he could only use his venomous words. 

“I’m not indebted to you, Ivan,” Matthew whispered vehemently, “don’t pretend that you’re a hero like Alfred. You don’t suit the role at all. You’re a monster simply doing monstrous things. You nearly killed that man and you loved it!” 

“I was merely protecting you in the best way I know how. See, I know my strengths. You, on the other hand, wallow in vulnerability like a pathetic little worm,” Ivan spat. 

Matthew’s pride stung like he had been physically slapped. Tears sprung to his eyes, but his mouth screwed up in an expression of disdain. “Don’t feel as if you need to protect me," Matthew whispered, "if I had died there I would be better off than being stuck with you. You _ disgust _ me.” 

“I disgust _you?_” Ivan laughed derisively. “You look as if your people ate you up and shit you out. Which, I suppose, they did. And I wish that I had left you, a steaming pile of dung, where I had found you!” 

“Why didn’t you?” Matthew said, his voice dangerously low, “what part do I play as a pawn in your twisted little game? I’m not a fool, Ivan. I may be tremendously weak right now, but I’m not enough of a wimp to lap up every word you say like honey and believe you are my saviour.” 

Ivan, without warning, put a hand on Matthew’s bruised knee and squeezed violently. Matthew yelped in surprise, but held the other’s gaze valiantly. Ivan’s eyes were sunken like bright pools of water at the bottom of a well, glimmering mauve, similar in hue to the bruise that grew ever-darker around his eye. 

“I wouldn’t leave you because my people have turned against me too, and I know how it feels. Believe it or not, I see a lot of myself in you, Canada,” Ivan murmured darkly, pain and anger still haunting his voice, “and if I am playing any sort of game, if you were worthy of being my pawn, then I suspect you are playing one too.” 

“I’m not anything like you,” Matthew sputtered, his heart beating erratically, “stop trying to bring us closer together with your vain words and empty actions.” 

“Fine,” Ivan growled, removing his hand from Matthew’s knee. He threw the rag down, running his newly cleaned hand -- now sullied again, though with Matthew's blood this time -- through his white-blond hair, his lips thinned and his eyes shut tightly. _ What makes me feel passion for such a vile, insufferable creature? _ he wondered. 

“Be alone, Matvey," he uttered after a moment, defeated, "I don’t want to be around you anymore.” 

Matthew’s face fell. Inexplicably, the nape of his neck and his hands broke out into a cold sweat. Ivan stood up, glaring down at the other with an angry look, though tinged with regret. 

Russia’s voice was inexplicably soft, “You’re letting your sickness seep into your insides, Matvey. Look at you, rotting.” 

Matthew actually looked down at himself. His bruises were darkening similar to Ivan's, his clothes and skin shredded, bleeding profusely onto the kitchen chair and dripping scarlet to the floor; it was a wonder nothing was broken but his heart. Matthew became aware of a tearing inside himself that surpassed any pain he had physically endured. The awful, jagged rips were in his soul, bleeding darkness. 

Matthew whined, soft and low. How did Ivan make him feel so angry, and in the next moment, so penitent? Matthew had promised himself he would not turn hateful and mean, and now here he was, lashing out in rage and despair -- wanting only to hurt like he himself had been hurt. Matthew could be cold and calculating, he counted on this to see him through, but he refused to debase himself further with these shameful emotional outbursts. 

“I’m going to go shower,” Ivan stated, turning to go. 

Matthew reached out and grabbed Ivan’s still-bare arm. His head hung low, his flowing blond locks covering his face in shame as he looked to the floor, murmuring, “...Please.” 

“Please, what?” Ivan snapped. 

“Please, just stay.” 

“No, I’m tired of you,” he grumbled, Ivan's frown was ever-present, petulant, “you don’t want to be cleaned, you child, but I do.” 

Matthew groaned, “Please, then, just t-take me with you.” His violet eyes lifted, hesitantly, to meet Ivan’s gaze. The Canadian's orbs were glistening with doubt and fear. He hadn’t relinquished his hold on Ivan’s arms, perhaps he didn’t want to be alone. He couldn't admit this to himself, didn't even allow himself to fully register the implications of what he was asking. 

Ivan clenched his teeth. “You want to come with me?” 

“Yes, please, I want to be cleaned.” 

Ivan felt his newly-returned heart throb with excitement. His frown diminished ever so slightly, assuming a carefully neutral look. So, Matthew was disgusted by him, but wanted to climb naked into his shower? The man bewildered and bemused him, but every passing day intrigued Ivan more and more. The Russian did not want to take advantage of Matthew’s vulnerability in this state, not at first, but this was an offer he could not possibly refuse. Without another word, Ivan bent down to pick Matthew up from the kitchen chair, cradling him in his arms once more. 

“As you wish,” Ivan said. 

“I can walk, you know,” Matthew huffed indignantly. 

“Can you, now?” Ivan raised a brow. 

“Probably not,” the Canadian sighed, closing his eyes. He succumbed to Ivan’s body once again, melting in his arms. Though Ivan could be a violent and cruel man, that was for certain, his form was an undeniable comfort. Matthew’s coldness was complimented by Ivan’s warmth, his ruined softness cradled by the other’s iron strength. Matthew felt like he was finally safe after a month of darkness and a full day and night of utter, unbelievable torment.


End file.
